


Daybreak

by TCRegan



Series: The Tevinter Candidate [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-14 19:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 53,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4577616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCRegan/pseuds/TCRegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thedas is in turmoil as Corypheus's armies continue to spread. A group of rebel fighters, led by Inquisitor Maxwell Trevelyan, team up to push them back and retake the land for their rightful owners.</p><p>With his faith and strength tested every step of the way, Maxwell must find a way to cope with the horrors of war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And we're back for part two. Thank you everyone for reading/leaving kudos/commenting. As always, concrit is welcome. Please enjoy the second half of the story. :)

_Father,_

_I know it's been many weeks since I've written to you, and I'm not sure if my last letter even reached you. News out of Ostwick has been scarce, but my scouts report that you and the family are alive and well, even if tensions are high. I implore you: please keep your head down. Tell Michael and George the same. No good will come of any of you challenging the authority in the city. You know what happened to Starkhaven. Please, for the sake of everyone, keep order in the city as best you can._

_I dare not write more about my current situation or how things currently fare, at the risk that this letter falls into enemy hands. I am well enough, considering the current circumstances. I promise you that I'll write again when I can. Stay safe. I'll pray for you and the others._

_With loving regard,_

_Maxwell_

Maxwell capped the ink and blotted the page before folding it. His tent was large enough for the small desk and chair, a modest chest of collapsible drawers, and two cots. All of which were easily disassembled, none of which held any real value, monetary or sentimental. Over the course of nearly a year, they'd packed up and moved camp many times, lost furniture and clothing, and all of it was replaceable. He set the letter on the stack of others needing to go out, each missive more important than the last. While he was still Inquisitor in title, it had taken on a new meaning entirely. No longer an odd collection of 'washed up Sisters' and 'crazed Seekers' that appeared to be vying for power, the Inquisition was now a coalition of resistance fighters which included dozens of different titles. But Maxwell was the person to whom everyone looked for answers.

A year ago, he would've balked at the idea of ordering around the King and Hero of Ferelden, the Champion of Kirkwall, and the Grand Duke of Orlais. And while they held their own groups, Maxwell coordinated the strikes. Dozens of guerrilla groups across Thedas answered to him, and very slowly they were starting to chip away at the enemy armies. It still wasn't enough, though. He knew that if he wanted to take back Thedas, restore the countries to their rightful rulers, he would have to be the one to defeat Corypheus. Somehow.

The tent flap opened, and Bull ducked his head in. "You ready, boss?"

Maxwell nodded. "Just had to finish a letter."

He picked up the training sword, just a one-handed steel blade with a blunted edge, and followed Bull out. They walked through rows of tents, Maxwell always happy to greet those who wanted to talk to him or shake his hand, or just wanted a verbal confirmation from him. Morale, he realized, was the one thing he could control. Having the Herald of Andraste by their side gave them comfort and hope. Likewise, the excitement rippled through the camp when Hawke returned, or if King Alistair made it across the Waking Sea. He hadn't seen much of his comrades, but knew that most were currently in Ferelden. They would move soon, taking back Denerim and Gwaren were priorities. Coastal cities were the key, and once they obtained the necessary ships, he could give word to contacts in Ostwick and Kirkwall to send aid to retake Highever and Amaranthine.

"Still popular," Bull joked, tossing a leather jerkin at him.

Maxwell pulled it on over his thin tunic. The Vimmark Mountains weren't nearly as cold as the Frostbacks, and most nights he woke up sweating. Though he imagined a lot of that was due to the nightmares more than the climate. Flashes of memory of the sacking of Skyhold, smoke in the air, the sounds of screaming. But beyond that, the betrayal he felt, the sharp stabbing pain that faded into a dull ache but still made his stomach twist and lurch whenever he thought about it. He tried to forget about it now.

"Shield or not?" Bull asked, picking up his own sword.

"Not for right now."

"We'll make a warrior out of you yet."

Maxwell laughed wryly. "Doubtful. I could train every day forever and never be as good as you."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't mean you're bad at it," Bull said, turning the large two-handed training blade in hand. "No one's as good as I am."

"Nor as modest," Maxwell teased.

Bull laughed and dropped into a fighting stance. Maxwell followed suit and tried his best to keep up. He'd taken lessons from Hawke, who fought with rage and aggression, King Alistair, who seemed to favor a more defensive stance, and Cullen, who taught him a few templar abilities. Though admittedly without lyrium, the techniques were somewhat less effective. He learned how to block and parry, and honed his speed and skill. Cullen taught him the training exercises that would give him the muscle memory necessary to reduce reaction time. Though he'd never been considered unfit by any measure, Maxwell found quite a lot of his shirts over the months of training starting to fit a little too snugly in the arms and chest. He thought back to a time two weeks ago when Bull caught him admiring himself.

_"Liking the view?"_

_Maxwell turned, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks. He was standing in their shared tent after washing off, wearing nothing but his smalls. With no mirrors around aside from the eluvian, he hadn't had time to really examine the changes to his body. His stomach was flat, a faint muscular definition emerging. His chest was broader, skin slightly darker from all the time in the sun. And his biceps were definitely toned, even when he didn't flex._

_"Bull. I, ah."_

_"Don't have to explain. You've been training hard." Bull stepped inside, letting the tent flap fall. He laid a hand on Maxwell's shoulder, fingers trailing down his bicep to squeeze. "Nice side benefit."_

_"I won't ever be as big as you," Maxwell said dumbly, as blood rushed away from his brain. There was no denying Bull's physique, nor the obvious spark of attraction between them. Perhaps it had always been there. But Maxwell pulled away slowly, not allowing it to go any further. He would take the comfort that Bull offered, easing into his embrace after a nightmare, the gentle touches and inside jokes they shared when joking was appropriate. But to allow himself anything else, it felt wrong. He didn't deserve anything more than friendship from Bull, not when he'd made such a huge mistake in misjudging Dorian so badly._

_"Let's hope not," Bull laughed. "Then we'd need to wrangle a bigger tent."_

Bull didn't push the issue. He never did. He was simply there. Maxwell remembered what he said so long ago. Whatever was between them, it would keep. And it had. He would always be close to Cullen and Solas, who appeared regularly in their camp. He'd grown fond of Hawke and surprisingly Anders, who was happy to discuss and debate religion with him. But Bull was a constant, and always had been. Maxwell wondered now how different things would have turned out if he'd taken Bull up on his offer originally, sitting in his quarters in Skyhold, singing songs for him.

"Hey, the enemy's not gonna wait for you to come out of your daydream before taking your head," Bull said, frowning.

"I… I'm sorry. Just really distracted," Maxwell said.

"I can see that. You need to talk?"

Maxwell shrugged. His mind was elsewhere, but he enjoyed training with Bull. Needed it. They tried for at least an hour a day. Maxwell was determined not to be a liability anymore in any fight. The idealist in him tried to believe this could all still be solved with pen, paper, and pretty words. But the realist refused to acknowledge that part. It would come down to a fight, likely between himself and Corypheus. He only hoped that the mark, the Anchor, was enough to defeat him.

Bull took his sword and placed both on the training rack. He gestured at the leather jerkin, and with a sigh, Maxwell pulled it over his head and handed it over. Without another word, they set off further into the forest, up a dirt path and toward the river that served as their source of water for now. Bull helped him across a fallen log and into a small clearing with mossy undergrowth. A few wildflowers grew tall, almost to Maxwell's chest, and he touched one of the petals, thinking.

"Do you think history will remember how badly I failed?"

Bull scoffed. "You planning on losing this war?"

"That's not what I meant," Maxwell said, not looking at him. "That I was so blind. That I… that I as good as led the Inquisition into this failure."

"The only person blaming you for that is you," Bull said gruffly.

Maxwell knew he was speaking the truth. There were other factors that went into it of course. But it was easy for him to take the blame with the guilt he was feeling. It was eating him up inside. He felt sick, and no amount of praying, no report of victory would ease it. And the more he thought about Dorian, about what they had, the more he wanted to hate him, but the less he found he was able to. Even if what Dorian felt for him was fake, it was real for Maxwell. The happiness and joy he found with Dorian, some would say it was a lie, but it wasn't. He'd fallen in love for the first time and he couldn't regret it, or the hurt that happened after. But the people who were killed because of his blindness?

Bull embraced him from behind, strong arms pinning his own to his sides, and Maxwell didn't struggle. He didn't want to. Bull made him feel safe. Not just physically, as a constant bodyguard and friend, but emotionally. He could allow himself to break down with Bull, to feel that failure. He was stripped of all pretenses, all masks, and every wall. Bull reached up, hand slipping inside the neckline of his tunic, and Maxwell felt him press his fingers to the pendant of Andraste he wore around his neck.

"I'm predictable, I suppose," Maxwell said with a slight laugh. "I couldn't do it so you did it for me?"

Bull chuckled against his ear. "Something like that."

"Let me go," Maxwell requested quietly, and immediately Bull loosened his hold. He turned in Bull's relaxed embraced and wrapped his arms around his waist. Head against his chest, he heard the quiet beating of his heart, and breathed slowly.

One hand rested at the small of his back, Maxwell felt it warm through his tunic before it slipped underneath, skin against skin. The other brushed his hair softly, then found the back of his neck, kneading the tense muscles. A quiet, naked whimper escaped his lips, and he shut his eyes tightly. He could do this. He would do this. He would fight through the guilt and the pain, and restore Thedas to what it was once was. No, better than it was. He looked up and returned the small smile that Bull gave him.

Almost an unconscious decision, Maxwell gripped the leather harness and tugged, other hand reaching up to cup Bull's cheek. He rose on his toes, not missing the surprised expression on Bull's face as he pulled him down, their lips pressing together in a searing kiss. It was as much a shock to Maxwell as it was for Bull, but he didn't think about it immediately, just needing the comfort that it brought, the relief. He tilted his head and opened his mouth, surrendering to the kiss, Bull's talented tongue pressing against his. His feet left the ground, and he instinctively wrapped his legs around Bull's waist, clinging helplessly. Fingers aching against the leather harness, he moved instead to wrap his arms around Bull's neck, and he felt Bull's hands supporting his thighs as the kiss continued.

Bull knelt in the field and carefully laid him back in the mossy grass. Maxwell gasped quietly, pinned now, unable to move, but he didn't pull away. He felt the stubble on Bull's chin against his own clean-shaven skin, and his nails dug unconsciously into his shoulders, holding him there. Bull pulled away first, and slowly, and Maxwell kept his eyes closed, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind.

"Look at me," Bull ordered quietly.

Maxwell opened his eyes slowly, an inexplicable fear welling in his chest. "I don't deserve-"

"If you're about to say you don't deserve it, don't. Don't think that. Ever." Bull leaned carefully on one elbow, shifting so the majority of his weight wasn't centered on Maxwell, careful not to crush him. With his free hand, he reached up to brush away the slightly curly blond locks off Maxwell's forehead.

"But… I…" The guilt he felt at the brief happiness he just experienced was overwhelming. "I want this."

"Good."

"But I don't-"

"You do."

"-deserve."

"Yes," Bull said. "It's been a year." He flicked the pendant of Andraste, which rested in the hollow of Maxwell's throat. "Just because they think you're her prophet doesn't mean you gotta martyr yourself like she did."

Maxwell laughed, scandalized at the blasphemous words. "Bull, honestly!"

"Truth's truth. Look." He rolled over, settling in the grass, tucking his arms behind his head. "I'll be whatever you want me to be for you. But I'm not going to watch you take a long guilt trip off a short dock."

"Have I been?" Maxwell turned to look at him. The afternoon sun was warm, breaking through the treetop canopy, and despite the well of emotion or perhaps because of it, he found himself exhausted.

Bull slid an arm around him and pulled him close. "Yep. Depressing as fuck."

"...I'm sorry, Bull. For what happened. For everything."

"You're lookin' for absolution. Maybe you should talk to your Maker about that. You want a friend or something more to see you through the hard times, you got me."

"I can't believe you still feel something for me. Even after I turned you down," Maxwell said, frowning. He rested a hand against Bull's chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the rumble as he spoke.

"Well, I ain't gonna pretend it didn't bruise the ego a bit. But it's not as if I kept myself in a box, waiting for you to come around. Lives got lived for better or worse, shit happened, and here we are."

"That's… oddly profound."

"That's me. Profound."

Maxwell chuckled, then paused, thinking. "Bull?"

"Yeah?"

"It's going to be hard for me to do this. But I don't want to feel guilty anymore for what happened." He closed his eyes and relaxed.

Bull pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "Then don't. Take a nap first. We'll talk about it later."

"Bull?"

"Huh?"

"...Thank you."

Before he heard Bull's response, Maxwell fell asleep, feeling the guilt and the pain ease just a little.


	2. Chapter 2

"Do you think a person is gone when they die, or when someone stops remembering them?"

Dorian looked over. Cole, so much his shadow this past year, had taken to asking him a least a dozen questions a day. He hardly minded. It kept his thoughts occupied and made it difficult to focus on the pain and confusion he felt. They were in the Alexius family crypt, the walls lined with decorative and very expensive urns laid out in the style of a family tree. The plaques underneath were carved from marble and bolted into the stone. Under Alexius's, it stated his full name, date of birth and death, and in Tevene: "Loving husband, Loving father" Dorian wondered what his own plaque would read. Depressing thoughts, and he shook his head to try to rid himself of them.

"You're talking about memories. Dead is dead."

Cole, who was sitting on a windowsill some ten feet up, hugged his knees to his chest. "You don't really believe that. I can see it."

"I suppose it doesn't matter to a spirit." Dorian regretted the words as soon as they left his lips. "I… apologize."

"You say things you don't mean all the time. I'm used to it." Cole's voice was airy and light, but Dorian heard the hurt behind them.

"You shouldn't have to be. The last thing I want to do is turn into my father. Come on."

He climbed the steps out of the crypt and winced against the bright morning sunlight. The cemetery was full of crypts similar to the Alexius family one, set on a sprawling, well-manicured lawn. Every Saturday he walked from the large house in which he resided over the past year and made the trip to the outskirts of the city to visit Alexius. Some days he stayed for hours, just sitting and contemplating. Others, like today, he left fairly quickly, not staying for more than a quarter of an hour. Cole always went with him, and rarely commented on the length of time. He seemed to know what Dorian needed in terms of silence or conversation. That didn't always mean he complied, however. In fact, today when all Dorian wished for was quiet, Cole seemed especially chatty.

"Are you going to see your father?"

Dorian frowned as they walked the path through the cemetery. "No, Cole. I told you, he doesn't wish to see me."

"But you wrote to him."

"And he never responded."

"That doesn't mean he doesn't want to see you. That means he didn't write back."

Dorian sighed. "For all the time you've spent among humans, you really don't understand human behavior."

"I understand you."

"And do you understand why those two men are following us?" Dorian asked, referring to the two Venatori soldiers, out of uniform now, but recognizable by their not so subtle tailing.

Cole frowned from beneath his large hat. "They're watching. Waiting. Wondering."

"Wondering if I'm going to slip up. Lucanus's men, tracking me to make sure that I'm not running off to meet with a secret operative."

"Why not tell them the truth?"

This is how it was with Cole. Trying to explain every little thing, like how he was under surveillance, how despite the fact that he turned on the Inquisition, that he was a spy, Lucanus didn't trust him to even take a piss on his own. He was starting to resent the man, but whenever the resentment sprang up, so too did a rush of guilt. Lucanus helped him, hadn't he? The Imperium was now the greatest military might in Thedas, save perhaps the Qunari. Or maybe not. No one had heard much from their aggressive neighbors to the north since Corypheus seated himself firmly in the capital.

"Because they wouldn't believe me."

"Like when you told them about me." Cole swung his arms and skipped a little, then stopped to kneel down and examine something on the ground.

Dorian waited for him, thinking about when Lucanus and Servis discovered Cole for the first time. They seemed to keep forgetting him, a side effect of him being a spirit no doubt. After the third time, Dorian made them sign a document stating they understood this phenomenon, and that Dorian would not have to prove to them once again that Cole was not a spy, and was in fact, thralled to Dorian through a blood ritual. Not only was proving it again and again a waste of everyone's time, the ritual revealing their link caused Cole extreme distress. As he considered Cole to be his only friend, Dorian wanted to spare him that pain.

"Yes."

"You stay with them because you're scared." Cole looked up, squinting in the sunlight despite the wide brim on his hat.

Dorian folded his arms, frowning. "I'm not scared. I just don't have anywhere else to go. And I can be useful here."

"Bleak and boring, watch the walls, wait for what? Frittering away, frivolous and forgotten. You think you're useless. You want to be useful but not used. I don't understand." Cole stood up, and they continued to walk, reaching the tall, wrought iron fence that surrounded the cemetery.

Dorian waited until a carriage passed through the gates, pulled by two proud ebony steeds. A woman sat within, her blond curls reminding him of an old friend he used to visit regularly. It seemed a lifetime ago. He and Cole continued their trek, the paved road fading into cobblestones. He could've requisitioned a carriage himself, but being alone with his thoughts or with Cole was how he preferred to spend his time. Walking to the cemetery gave him more opportunity for that.

"Is it because they hurt you?" Cole asked, not taking Dorian's silence as a hint that he didn't want to talk about this. "The first time or the last time?"

"Cole, please."

"Oh… sorry."

One of the irritating things of being back home was the warmer weather. There was no reason to wear a coat or a cloak, and Dorian wished he wore one now, if only to shove his hands in his pockets or pull up a hood. Perhaps he should give in to the Venatori's awful sense of fashion and start wearing a mask. _Like an Orlesian,_ he thought bitterly. Not that Tevinter didn't enjoy its occasional odd fashion, some of which Dorian himself helped propagate. Instead, he merely clenched his fists, keeping his head down as they walked.

"I still don't understand," Cole pressed.

"What?"

They reached one of the busier squares in the city, a bustling marketplace. Dorian purchased a dozen chocolate-dipped fruits, one of his favorite desserts, and offered one to Cole, who took it out of propriety. He didn't need to eat, but that didn't mean that he couldn't, and Dorian enjoyed spending money on his only friend.

Cole contemplated the strawberry. "You wait for them to tell you what to do, but you fear it at the same time."

"I'm not good at idling." Maxwell did that to him in the end. Like a pretty trinket or a shiny toy. He was left off assignments and made to wait to be told what to do. He used to make decisions for himself, but now? Now he was pathetic, like a dog eager for its next command.

"And… you're worried that they'll tell you to do something you'd rather not do."

"Yes."

Cole fell silent, the chocolate leaving smudges on his fingers as he rolled it contemplatively in his hand. A few blocks later they reached the front of the impressive looking estate, a collection of four buildings each as grandiose as the last, built from marble and adorned in golden dragon statues with onyx trim. Dorian brushed his fingertips over the gate, a whisper of magic releasing the wards, and Cole trailed him through.

"I know."

"Sorry?" Dorian didn't understand what he meant. But that was normal with his conversations with Cole. Usually Cole was able to clarify, but every so often, he couldn't, and it just became more confusing.

"I know what it's like to be told to do something I would rather not do."

Dorian stopped suddenly, a prickle of anxiety forming in his chest. "I… see."

They remained silent as they navigated the ornate halls, plush carpets under their feet, expensive art and tapestries hanging on the walls. Dorian led the way upstairs, ignoring the servants that passed, and unlocked the door to his room. An illusion of privacy and safety, since Lucanus had a key as well. He locked it again once they were inside, and breathed a little easier. Like his own room at his father's house, or the one in which he stayed when he apprenticed under Alexius, it was spacious and lavishly decorated. Unlike the other rooms, however, he found little peace here. While it was nice to be able to shut the world out, it was all just smoke and mirrors. Lucanus had already had several conversations with him there, and Servis would "drop by" occasionally if those talks didn't go well. Dorian learned that he would receive subsequent visits if he wasn't convincing enough in reassuring Lucanus that he was, in fact, perfectly fine and happy.

He dropped the box of fruits on his desk and pulled off his boots. Cole disappeared momentarily and reappeared on his favorite spot, the large mantle over the massive fireplace. He crossed his legs and waited for Dorian, who sat on the foot of the bed, facing him. Dorian hesitated, plucking at a stray thread on the blanket while he thought. If he went through with what he was thinking, Lucanus and Servis would find out. It would be difficult to explain. 

Cole tilted his head. "You're hurting."

Dorian laughed quietly. "I am conflicted."

"Why?"

"Because of what you said."

"I hurt you?"

"No, Cole," Dorian assured him. Lucanus might never trust him again. Then again, that was depending on if he remembered Cole at all. "I'm going to release you."

Cole stopped fidgeting at once, and stared at him. "You don't want me here anymore?"

"No, to be perfectly honest I think you might be the only thing keeping me from going insane. But you're right. It's simply not fair that I have this control over you."

There was a slight whoosh of air, and Dorian turned around to see Cole sitting cross-legged in bed. He removed his hat and set it aside carefully. "What about their control over you?"

Dorian pulled a small dagger from his belt, and held his hand out, palm up. "I'll be all right."

Cole touched his fingertips, frowning. He traced the line of the scar on Dorian's palm, an old wound left from the first time he bled himself to start this ritual. "You won't."

Dorian sniffed. "Nonsense," he said, trying to inject confidence into his tone. But he wasn't fooling Cole. He was barely fooling himself. "I get by. I always do." He heated the tip of the knife with his magic, then drew it along his palm, reopening the scar. A few chanted words and a whispered spell, drops of blood on Cole's hand, and the thrall was gone.

"I don't feel any different," Cole said, looking at his hand.

"You'll be able to act on your own now." Dorian pulled out a handkerchief, cleaned the tip of the knife off, then wrapped his hand up. "And… if you wanted to leave, you could do so."

"Not now. Not... right now," Cole corrected. "Are you crying?"

"No."

"Your eyes are watery."

Dorian blinked and pressed the back of his wrist to his eye. "I'm feeling tired, actually. I think I'll rest for a bit."

Cole climbed off the bed and took his hat, holding it in both hands in front of him, looking a bit anxious.

"What is it?" Dorian awkwardly worked the ties of his shirt, and started to pull it over his head.

"The Inquisitor would help you."

Dorian stopped, shirt tangled on his arms, and felt suddenly ill. "No. He wouldn't. And I'll thank you not to talk to him about me, please."

"You released me."

"I am asking, Cole, not ordering." He tossed his shirt in the corner of the room. A servant would pick it up later. Pulling back the bed covers, he crawled in wearily, thinking about what the evening would bring. Awkward meetings with Lucanus and other Venatori, or perhaps he would be left to his own devices once again. He wasn't sure which was worse.

Cole pulled the covers up over him and tucked him in. Something he did regularly. Dorian never questioned it. "Dorian?"

"Yes?"

"Are you happy?"

He sighed. "Would you believe me if I said yes?"

"I… don't know. I could pretend to. Would you want me to believe it?"

Thinking about it, Dorian realized he didn't have an answer. He _wasn't_ happy. The last time he wasn't happy, he left. He wanted to make a change. And then things slowly got better. Didn't they? He helped to effect the change that was sweeping Tevinter and the rest of the Thedas. But if that was really what he wanted, why wasn't he happy?

"They hurt you."

Dorian rolled over. "Stop it, Cole. I've already heard this from you. They helped me." The silence stretched, and Dorian sighed. "Don't tell anyone I've released you."

"All right."

"I'll be awake in a few hours. Go do whatever you'd like."

He felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder, then on his head, and felt comforted as he usually did when Cole was near. Then it was gone a moment later when Cole left, and it took him a long time to fall asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Being back in Tevinter, even several months after his return, was a bit strange for Servis. Oh, he wasn't going to complain about sleeping in his own bed or taking a bath in his own opulent bathroom. Even Silvius, his most prized and trusted slave, was happy to be back and running the estate to Servis's satisfaction. Still, while it was nice to be out of the desert and even nicer to be out of Val Royeaux, there was something off about the city. Unrest, Servis thought. He had the feeling two decades ago when a slave uprising occurred in the smithing district. Extremely poor conditions and the deaths of dozen slaves from neglect and poor medical care led to several hundred more deaths. And not all of them slaves. Not to mention the cost of the loss of materials in the fires. His intuition saved him thousands of gold, as he pulled his investments two weeks before it happened. Panicking investors pulled out afterward, rushing to sell their shares, and he'd made a killing in the weeks to follow by buying up the market at bottomed out prices.

This itching intuition of his was like a sixth sense for finance. Usually there was a clear option or path he could take to ensure large gains, or at the very least, minimal losses. However, this odd air in the city was confusing and hard to read, and it unsettled him. Perhaps it would be good to take a trip out of the country, or just out of Minrathous for a few months. The rabble rousers stemmed from the Chantry, he knew that. Whispers of how Corypheus couldn't possibly be a god, that he was a darkspawn and everyone was being fooled with his evil. Not just whispers, either, but the ones who became too loud were summarily executed in the market square, the bloodstains a macabre reminder of who was really in charge.

God or no, Corypheus was certainly in charge. Servis liked his head on his neck. It was just a matter of figuring out if or when to jump ship in order to keep it that way. Running was not the worst thing to do, especially when it meant avoiding death. Unlike his fellow Venatori, Servis's sense of self-preservation outweighed anything else, even and sometimes especially his pride. He was considering a list of assets, scratching out an approximate course of action for his money should he need to disappear for a while when Silvius knocked on the door and let himself in.

"Master Chiron Lucanus."

Servis said nothing, nor did he look up. He heard the heavy boots on his expensive carpet, and frowned ever so slightly. "Dismissed, Silvius, thank you."

The door closed. A few seconds passed, and Lucanus cleared his throat.

"If you require a throat lozenge, Lucanus, you should have inquired downstairs. I'm sure the maid would have fetched you one. If you're trying to get my attention, rest assured, I'm aware you're there. However, I am in the middle of something, so have a seat and be patient." Servis turned a page and made a few marks, then filed the sheets away before reaching for the last thing in his inbox: a letter from Erimond. Between Lucanus needing his attention now, immediate and in front of him, and Erimond no doubt writing to gloat, he actually found he preferred Erimond.

_Something's definitely off,_ he thought as he slit the envelope open with his silver letter opener. He flicked the heavy parchment and read. It was, as he suspected, mere gloating from Erimond. Orlais was beautiful this time of year, Servis should come visit, the demons are doing just fine. Servis sighed. Of course Erimond would speak of a horde of demons as if they were his offspring, the proud father of a highly dysfunctional family. He refolded the letter, poured himself a glass of brandy, and finally looked up.

Lucanus sat across from him, legs crossed at the knee, looking annoyed. He'd left his mask off and his hood down. His sandy brown hair had grown long, almost to his cheeks now, and it made him look even younger than when it had been shorter. The freckles didn't help either, Servis noted. If he was a vain man, he might have grown his own hair out and tried to style it. Perhaps he _was_ a touch vain, he thought, as he started cropping it closer and closer to his head once it started turning silver. Sighing and lamenting the loss of his own youth, Servis sat back and gestured with his half-full glass.

"You haven't gone to see Dorian recently."

"I wasn't aware that I needed to." While the project with Pavus had been an interesting experiment in Orlais, now that they were home, he had hoped that Lucanus could handle things on his own. He felt akin to a disciplinarian father, along with his inept wife who couldn't control their errant child. And it was irritating.

"He's idling. We give him opportunities to experience the city, to visit the theatre or the museums. I know for a fact that he's been propositioned at least a dozen times by old lovers, and he's declined it all. He's simply doing nothing, except for when he visits Alexius's crypt. It's not healthy."

Servis sighed and sipped his brandy. "How is this my responsibility?"

Lucanus flushed with anger, cheeks red. "If he's unhappy, there's a chance he could defect."

"Then you kill him," Servis said simply, as if he were speaking to a child. And honestly he didn't see too much of a difference. Lucanus tended to act like one at times. "Really, how difficult is this?"

"And if we do that, and his father gets word of it?"

"I'm sorry, but I didn't think that Magister Halward Pavus gave much care to what's going on with the Imperium. He declined to join the Venatori according to my sources, but he hasn't spoken out against us either."

"Do you think he'll remain a bastion of neutrality when he finds out the Venatori killed his son?"

"Invite him to Minrathous to visit Dorian."

Lucanus scowled. "You really think that's a good idea?"

Servis drained his glass, contemplated pouring himself another, and decided against it. If he turned to drink every time someone came running to him with a problem they couldn't solve, he would be a drunk before next winter. "I am generally not in the habit of putting forth ideas which I believe are bad. Seems a tad counter-productive."

"What will bringing his father here accomplish?"

Searching for the patience to keep from sending a ball of lightning into Lucanus's face, Servis sighed again, making his irritation apparent. "Either Halward Pavus will decline the invitation, in which case you'll need to figure out the next steps to take with Dorian – on your own," he added. "Or he'll come here. If he comes to the city, he'll either forgive Dorian for his past mistakes and congratulate him on his success, or they'll have a wonderful fight. If it's the former, Dorian can return to Qarinus or wherever, and he's no longer your problem. If it's the latter, Dorian will run to your arms seeking approval and guidance. And if that happens," he continued, not bothering to hide the long-suffering tone of his voice, "then you can tell him to do whatever you need him to do. Take up a hobby. Knitting or something." He waved a hand dismissively.

"And the demon?"

"What demon?" Servis asked. He'd hoped that would have been the last of the conversation, but it seemed Lucanus was determined to waste his time further.

"The thing he calls Cole. Don't you remember?" Lucanus removed a folded piece of parchment from his pocket and handed it to Servis.

Servis uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, reaching over to take the paper and flicked it open. A sketch of a young boy sparked something in his memory. The name "COLE" was written next to his face in capital letters. A brief description was under that, and beneath _that_ , was a paragraph written in his own hand, stating he remembered Cole, acknowledged what he was, and understood that Dorian had him in a thrall. He frowned, trying to recall writing any of this. The fact that he barely could, that it was like losing a dream upon waking, was highly disconcerting.

"Pavus has a pet demon."

"Yes."

"I doubt it matters. So long as he keeps it leashed. If he turns it on any of the Venatori, the demon will be destroyed or banished, and Dorian will be imprisoned or killed. And thus you have your circular discussion, where end meets beginning." He folded the parchment and flicked it across the desk, watching it slide across the smooth wood top.

Lucanus scrambled for it, stopping it against the edge before it could fall, and pocketed it. "What has the Elder One have you doing, since you seem so very reluctant to give up your time for more important matters?"

Servis narrowed his eyes just slightly, mouth set in a thin line, contempt etched into every inch of the glare he set on Lucanus now. "If that was any of your business, you would have been told by one of your superiors. Now, if that's all, Chiron."

Lucanus stood, irritated. "Don't think I don't know you only use my first name when you believe you've gotten one up on me, Crassius."

"Then I'm mistaken," Servis said, picking up Erimond's letter again.

"Mistaken?"

He peered at Lucanus over the letter. "You do have the capacity to learn when you're being insulted. Here I thought you were simply too thick to grasp the concept."

The sputtering that followed was almost dramatic enough to have warranted landing Lucanus a lead role in some stage comedy. He turned on his heel and stalked to the door before turning around to address him one last time.

"This is the last time I offer you anything, Servis. You won't be hearing from me again!"

"That," Servis muttered to the empty room as Lucanus stormed out, "was the whole idea in the first place."

With another sigh, he pulled a fresh roll of parchment from his desk and began to draft a quick reply to Erimond.


	4. Chapter 4

If someone asked Bull when he met Maxwell Trevelyan if he thought he'd end up being his closest friend, he probably would've shrugged off the idea. A somewhat scrawny human noble, spoiled and rich, born with a silver spoon in his mouth. But first impressions weren't as lasting as people would've liked to think. Then came the religious talk. He listened to Maxwell give sermons to people like Leliana, who after the death of the Divine, seemed to lose her way. He was in his element talking to people, and liked to be surrounded by large groups. Inevitably, the conversation turned from small talk to the Chantry and the Maker. Bull never got beyond the philosophy of the Qun, and even though he'd been born to it, a lot of it made no sense to him. But he trusted it. Questioned it once, and then again. The second time, he'd gotten kicked out altogether. Given the chance though, he'd make the same decision again. After all, he would've missed Krem, who was leading the Chargers on sabotage missions across Ferelden, and all his other boys.

But Maxwell's faith never wavered. Not even when his lover turned out to be a backstabbing piece of shit. Over the following year, Bull caught him talking to the Maker a few times, asking him why, wondering why He never helped Dorian out. He was trying to figure out the motivations behind Dorian's treachery, and Bull wondered if it was all just a waste of time. Inevitably most of their conversations would circle around to Maxwell's guilt, the loss of so many people, and Bull would have to remind him that war never really changed. People died, sometimes in horrible ways, and you just had to figure out a way to move on from it. Maxwell had lost too much sleep already trying to understand where he went wrong, if he could've fixed it somehow. And on the nights when it got really bad, Bull just held him and eased him through it.

Sure, there was always a part of him that hoped Maxwell would take their friendship to the next level. It was easier in Skyhold, surrounded by familiar people, his choice of serving girls or ex-Chantry sisters, or a curious soldier or three. He never really said no to anyone who wanted to help warm his bed. All while keeping his eye on Maxwell and Dorian, making sure the kid didn't get his heart broken too badly if Dorian decided a religious, virginal kid wasn't worth his time. Really, _he_ should have seen the signs. But he thought maybe this Vint was different. Maxwell seemed happy with him. Dorian didn't seem like the snake he was. And Bull was fine with it. He wasn't the type to sit and pine and lament rejection. But the little part of him that liked being around Maxwell, the part that felt content and warm when he sang, that didn't go away.

He didn't push because Maxwell needed a friend. Who was Maxwell going to talk to about everything, anyway? Cullen? Bull scoffed, thinking about it. Cullen was a great commander, but he forgot what it was like to be young and confused, and in love. The other members of the Inquisition, the ones Maxwell _could_ confide in weren't very good choices either. Solas spent most of his time asleep, exploring the Fade, entreating help from spirits who might be able to gather intelligence for them. At any rate, Bull doubted Solas knew a damn thing about how humans or any other worldly beings really acted when it came to love and loss. Seeing it in a dream wasn't the same thing. Blackwall and Sera touched base every few weeks, but they were in Ferelden with the Chargers and the others. Leliana ran regular reports and was hardly in camp. And Josephine – and that was a breath of relief to find out she'd survived with Leliana – was busy trying to rebuild ties in Antiva. All of them had an important role. And Bull's was to be Maxwell's friend and more importantly, his bodyguard. He wasn't going to let anyone get close to him, not without knowing a whole hell of a lot more about them first.

Digging up a copy of _The Tale of the Champion_ was easy. Through it, he learned more about Hawke and Anders, and felt more at ease with the people surrounding them. As more Inquisition soldiers found them, they broke off into smaller groups, but Maxwell seemed comfortable with Hawke, who was a very straightforward man, and even Anders. Who was, Bull realized, a lot less straightforward. He understood Cullen's trepidation with him. The guy let a demon take over his soul after all. _Spirit,_ he heard Solas's voice in his head, correcting him. Bull didn't care much about the differences. Just the idea of letting something inside you, something that could control you, it was freaky. But he saw what Anders could do, how he could fight, and more importantly, how he could heal. And even more importantly than that, he saw the kind of loyalty that Anders inspired. That, above all else, made him realize that Anders wasn't a bad guy. Despite having a demon spirit thing living in his head that made him blue and glowy.

He grunted, half-asleep as these thoughts ran through his mind, and looked down at Maxwell, whose head was pillowed against his shoulder. Too many mornings Bull woke up to this. Too many mornings he had to ease out of their shared cot and go rub one out in the bushes on the outskirts of camp. He didn't want to put Maxwell off, after all. He was just thankful that Maxwell didn't seem the kind of guy to have sex dreams all the time and wake up hard and needy. No, he was more likely to wake up due to a nightmare that Bull had to coax him out of. But this morning was different. Maxwell, for whatever reason, kissed him. And not a friendly peck, good and proper. If Bull thought he was ready for it, he would've taken him the other day, right there in that field. But Maxwell needed reassurance and love. He wouldn't be quick to jump into it. And Bull was fine with that, too.

It didn't mean he didn't still wake up hard, though.

Carefully he pulled away from Maxwell, frowning when he heard a whimper. Maxwell shifted, seeking the warmth that was leaving him. Usually Bull could leave without disturbing him too much and return to see him still asleep. But this morning, apparently, that wasn't going to happen. Maxwell reached out, half-asleep, and lifted his head.

"Bull?"

_At least he isn't calling me by the Vint's name._ It had happened once or twice, Maxwell too groggy or caught in some dream, thinking he was still asleep back at Skyhold. "I'm here."

"You're leaving? What's going on?" He opened his eyes blearily, trying to blink through the haze of some dream.

"Nothing. Just need to take a piss."

"Oh, I thought…" He yawned, pressing the back of his hand against his lips.

"You all right? Nightmare?"

Maxwell shook his head, tousle-haired, movements slow. "Sort of. I dreamed you left me. Then I woke and you were leaving me."

_Break my heart, why don't you?_ Bull pulled him close, but tried to keep his lower half away from Maxwell, not wanting to alert him to the minor situation he found himself in. Maxwell kissed him tentatively, as he had started to do when they were alone. Bull was pretty sure the rumor had already made its way around camp and back, considering how close they were. But no one had actually seen them together, and he wondered how much discretion Maxwell wanted. Exclusivity, he knew, was a given. And Bull found that he wouldn't have wanted to share Maxwell with anyone either. And _that_ was something new to him too.

He returned the kiss, one hand finding its way to Maxwell's hair, fingers tangling in the dark gold locks. The image that came to him, Maxwell's head thrown back while Bull pulled on his hair, fucking him nice and slow, did nothing to alleviate his erection. Maxwell parted his lips, inviting Bull to kiss him deeper, and he complied. All he wanted to do was to reverse their positions, pin him to the bed, and rut against him. But Maxwell required a gentler touch. He pulled on his hair, eliciting a soft moan. _Well, maybe not too gentle,_ Bull amended mentally. Caught up as he was in the kiss, he didn't shift enough when Maxwell moved further on top of him, and one pajama-clad thigh brushed against his erection. Maxwell pulled back suddenly.

"Sorry," he said, blushing.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Bull assured him.

Maxwell glanced down, and Bull followed his gaze. A nervous sort of laughter bubbled from Maxwell's throat. "Maker's breath."

Bull, a firm subscriber to the philosophy of, "If you've got it, flaunt it," avoided flaunting it for now. However, that didn't mean he could stop the proud smirk from crossing his face as Maxwell's surprise at how big he was finally registered.

Then as if he suddenly realized he was gaping openly at Bull's blanket-covered erect cock, Maxwell looked away quickly, face an even brighter red. "Sorry," he said again.

"If you didn't get excited at the idea of another guy's cock-"

"Maker's mercy, Bull!"

Bull laughed as Maxwell hid his face. "Uptight cause you're a noble or cause you're Chantry born and bred?"

"Both," Maxwell admitted, voice muffled by his hands. He looked up at Bull. "Nothing like that for Qunari, I suppose."

"Nah. Sex isn't anything personal where I come from. But," he added, seeing Maxwell frown, "that doesn't mean it's not personal for me. I've had to do a lot of fitting in-"

"Bull!"

"Hey, I wasn't even going for innuendo there. That was you and your dirty mind."

Maxwell sighed exasperatedly. He reached up slowly and touched the edge of Bull's uncovered, missing eye. The wound was scabbed over, the socket slightly hollow. "It wasn't ever talked about the Chantry," he admitted. His fingers ghosted over the scars.

Bull took his hand gently and kissed his fingertips. "A dirty sin."

"No. It wasn't supposed to be shameful. But it wasn't taught, either. You simply had your duties to the Maker. I'm sure my father taught my brothers a few things. They teased me with their knowledge. Fooled around with girls before they were married."

"You figure yourself out early on?"

"I thought my path was laid out," Maxwell admitted. "There was nothing in the Chant or any of the sermons about sex with others or… you know."

"Taking care of yourself?" Bull asked, figuring a vague innuendo was better than a blunt, medical term. He never had this type of conversation with anyone except the Tamassran who taught him about masturbation and sex when he was finally ready for it. It was laid out all so perfectly normal for him, he never had the chance to think that sex was anything shameful. You got horny, you got it taken care of, you moved on. Apparently Maxwell could've benefitted from the same type of talk. It sounded like no one taught him anything. _And I doubt that fucking bastard gave a shit about his pleasure._ He let the anger go as quickly as it came. There was no place for it here.

Maxwell nodded. "I did it a few times, but it never really seemed like I did it right. It was… hollow. And then I wondered about Andraste-"

"You wondered about Andraste while you were jerking it? You sure you're into men?"

"Bull, shut up," Maxwell deadpanned. Then he grinned. "No. Just about her and Maferath. They had children, so they had to have had sex. And I wondered if she ever…"

"I bet they were having all sorts of freaky sex. Together and apart," Bull said, enjoying the little glare his blasphemy earned him. It wasn't his religion, and Maxwell tolerated the tiny jabs. He was never truly angry about them anyway.

"You might be right," Maxwell acquiesced. He glanced back down again. Bull's erection hadn't waned. "If you want… I could…"

"No offense, but I don't think you're ready for that."

"I just meant my hand or my mouth or… Maker," he broke off, embarrassed.

"And that's why I don't think you're ready yet. We'll ease into it," Bull said.

"With all this talk about, I'm… ah, too," Maxwell admitted.

Bull lifted the covers a little and pretended to peek, laughing when Maxwell pushed him away. "I could take care of you if you want."

"That's not fair."

"That's true," Bull agreed. "Well, shit, now we're fucked. Or not, considering. Both of us are hard and don't want to take advantage."

"I did want to take it slowly," Maxwell said. "It seems pointless now after…" He frowned. "No. I won't think about that." He leaned up on his elbow, looking down at the tenting blanket. "I want to do this right. With you."

"We'll go at your pace," Bull said. "But uh, I gotta take care of this one way or another. There's a handy little bit of trees out by-"

"No!" Maxwell said, sounding scandalized. "I'm not going to kick you out of our tent and make you go masturbate in the bushes." He pressed his lips together tightly, thinking, then nodded before lying back down next to Bull. "We'll do it together. You take care of yourself and I'll do myself."

"Kinky."

"Is it?" Maxwell asked, turning once more to look at him.

"Could be," Bull admitted. "Never tried it before." He sat up so he could rummage on the floor through his bag for the jar of lotion he kept. "Multipurpose," he said, settling back down. He rested the jar on his bare chest, and pulled the blanket down off the both of them.

Maxwell wore both a loose linen shirt and pants tied at the waist. "You first?" he asked, clearly nervous.

Bull, lacking shame and needing no modesty, tugged his pants off his hips, cock bobbing free, pointing upward against his stomach. He glanced at Maxwell, expecting to see him looking impressed or maybe even blushing again. But his expression seemed more confused than anything. "Expecting something else?"

"What?" Maxwell looked up, then down again. "No. You just look different."

"Well. Yeah."

"No," Maxwell sighed. With slight trepidation he pulled his own pants down, revealing his erection. "I mean. Here." He gestured at the head of his cock.

Bull took a handful of lotion in his hand and stroked himself firmly, then pulled back his foreskin. "Qunari don't cut it. At least, not that I know of. Might be a rite of passage for the Beresaad. But that's not me. You've never seen an uncut cock before?"

Maxwell took a bit of lotion as well, and Bull put the jar aside. "No. Never."

"How many cocks have you seen?"

"Counting my own?"

"I would hope so."

Maxwell rolled his eyes, then gasped, touching his slicked fingers to his skin. "It's warm." He paused a second, then answered. "Four. Five now. Yours. Mine. His," he said, and the tone of his voice indicated clearly he meant Dorian, "and my older brothers'."

"Some weird noble family closeness thing?" Bull teased.

"We were kids together!" Maxwell protested. "It just happens. I don't want to talk about my brothers right now."

"Different strokes," Bull said, the idiom oddly appropriate in their position.

He lay on his back, Maxwell on his side, facing him, watching him, and they fell silent. Still quite early in the morning, the only sound other than Maxwell's labored breathing and their hands upon their erections, was the chirruping of birds outside. Bull tucked his free arm behind his head and grunted softly, closing his eye. Maxwell rested his cheek against his chest, and Bull felt a bit of damp precome on his hip when Maxwell thrust too close. He glanced at him, soft blue eyes closed now, hair laid out messily on his forehead. He was gorgeous and selfless. Felt things way too deeply and let himself get hurt way too much. But he wanted the best for his friends, for the people he cared about. And he cared a lot for many people. He was noble and endearing. And he had a voice sweeter than any Bull had ever heard.

Maxwell's eyes opened halfway, and he was panting through slightly parted lips. "Bull," he moaned softly. 

He leaned up on an elbow and kissed him, and Bull returned it, free hand coming up to grip his hair, holding him in place. Maxwell groaned deeply into the kiss, the noise muffled. His movements became frenzied, hips thrusting faster, and Bull sped up to match his rhythm. Maxwell tried to pull away, to break the kiss, but Bull kept him there, swallowing the cry that escaped. He knew at once it was too loud for such close quarters. Not that he cared who knew what they were doing, but it was courtesy not to wake your fellow soldiers. Still, it was nice to know that Maxwell was a screamer.

_Just means checking to make sure he's okay with a gag._

The image of Maxwell tied up like a pretty package, bound and gagged for him, coupled with the warm rush of semen that hit his side, forced Bull's own hips upward, thrusting into his hand. He felt Maxwell collapse next to him, a bit sweaty, face pressed against his shoulder. Warm, soft kisses peppered his skin, up his neck and over the stubble on his chin and cheek, toward his ear.

"I want to see you come," Maxwell whispered.

"Shit," Bull growled, eye opening suddenly. He hadn't expected Maxwell to do that, and his orgasm came faster than it normally would have. He spilled over his hand and stomach, grunting quietly with the euphoric rush. It was the best time he'd ever had bringing himself off, and he told Maxwell, enjoying the faint blush the words evoked.

"Same," Maxwell agreed. "It… I got it all over you. I'm so-"

"If you apologize," Bull started warningly. "Got a cloth over there?"

Maxwell rolled away and came back with an unraveled but unused bandage and dutifully cleaned them both up. Bull pulled his pants up before rolling over, careful not to catch Maxwell's head or shoulder with his horns, and settled on top of him.

"Maker," Maxwell breathed, palms against Bull's chest. "It's different when you're standing. You don't seem as massive."

"You know, you're just short and skinny for a human," Bull said, teasing him again. He kissed him, pleased with how the morning was going. It had to be a good day to start like this.

"I know," Maxwell said. He wriggled, pulling his own pants up so he could wrap one leg around Bull's. He reached up and touched his horns, then cupped his face and pulled him down for another kiss. "Thank you," he whispered against his lips. "I really liked it. Being together like that but not…"

"It was a good idea," Bull said. "Your idea."

Maxwell pretended to be insulted. "I do have them on occasion."

"How about this idea," Bull said, kissing him again. "When you're ready for it." He nipped his bottom lip. "I tie you up so you can't move, gag you so all you can do is make those hot little whimpering noises, and then I torture and tease every inch of you." He kissed his cheek, then chin, and knocked his head back to bite softly at his throat. "Make you come so hard you almost pass out."

"Bull," Maxwell whined. "You're going to get me up again."

Bull bit again, closer to the collarbone, easier to hide, but still visible, leaving a bruise. "All right," he relented, chuckling, and sat up, straddling his thighs. "You look good and fucked."

"I do?"

"Mmhm. It's sexy." He swatted him gently on the hip and then got up. "Come on. I want to watch Cullen turn red when he sees the mark I left on your neck."

Maxwell sat up, hand going to his neck, eyes wide. "Bull!"

Bull merely laughed at the scandalized expression and tone, and started to dress for the day.


	5. Chapter 5

Maxwell spent the day slightly self-conscious with the mark on his neck, but overall pleased. Paperwork attended to, mostly letters and missives from their allies in Ferelden and Orlais, coded troop movements that he conferred with Cullen on, he helped himself to a bit of breakfast. After, he carried a bucket of the dishes to the riverbed, knelt down, and rolled up his sleeves. A few minutes into washing, he heard someone approach and looked over. Anders set down another bucket and removed his coat, draping it over a nearby fallen tree, and started scrub at his own pile.

"My father would have something to say about me washing up like this," Maxwell said carefully. While he and Anders had spoken many times, it was usually in the company of others, normally Hawke, who seemed rather overprotective of him. Their conversations also tended to be about the Chantry, philosophical discussions about the Maker and Andraste, and Maxwell was surprised but pleased to find out how devout Anders was.

"Was he very strict?"

"Only when it came to propriety and appearances."

"Our fathers are alike, then."

"Were you-" Maxwell started.

Anders shook his head, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. "No, we weren't nobles. Just commoners. But he was quick enough to turn me over to the templars."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not," Anders said. "Old wound." He rinsed a plate in the stream and carefully stacked the clean dishes on a blanket stretched out on the bank. "He wasn't afraid of hard work though. Getting his hands dirty."

Maxwell let out a mirthless laugh. "I don't think my father did even an hour of this kind of work in his life. We had servants. A lot of them." He paused. "You know, I thought I would miss it. I really don't."

"Something to be said about the Chantry, I suppose," Anders mused. "At least, when it came to Ostwick."

"My father thought it was quaint, how I mingled with the commoners. Helped clean up the shelters in the slums. I love him, but Maker, he believed it was all about appearances. Show the lesser folk how House Trevelyan cared about them. That way no one complained about the taxes." He shook his head. "If I ever go back… No, I suppose it doesn't matter. My eldest brother will take over the estate once my father steps down."

"You can still change the world," Anders said.

"Do you believe that? Still?"

Anders looked at him, and Maxwell wondered if he ever smiled. "I do. You never give up. You fight against all the injustices. The cruelty. For the children whose parents never wanted them, or the common man who just wants to live in peace."

The intensity of Anders' gaze forced Maxwell to look away. He'd seen his eyes glow brightly blue before when he got angry or upset, usually talking to Cullen. The power he had and the will that it took to control it was impressive and terrifying. "Do you believe I can change it?"

"You seem to be the one." He shook off another dish, then sat back a moment, thinking. "I was there when Hawke killed Corypheus the first time. He was confused when he woke up and said that he did enter the Fade. Physically. And they said the same of you."

Maxwell scrubbed harder at the pot he was cleaning. He still couldn't remember what happened to him when he fell out of the Fade. Who the woman was that everyone described seeing. Was it Andraste? They all seemed to think so. He wished he knew. Whatever happened to him, he knew the Maker was with him, that Andraste was guiding him. Even if sometimes it felt like they weren't there. He had to keep hold of his faith. It would see him through to the end of this, whatever end that might be. "I did. But I don't remember any of it." Oddly, they never spoke about this. When Corypheus was mentioned, it was always in how to defeat him, or how it was that he was still alive after Hawke killed him.

"I don't understand," Anders said, sighing. "For so long, the Chantry blamed mages, saying it was our fault, our hubris that caused the Maker to cast the magisters out as darkspawn. If he really did walk the Fade, then it's really-"

Maxwell reached out and took his hand, their skin damp from the washing. "No man was meant to walk the Fade physically. But I don't think the Maker would ever do that to anyone who wanted to be closer to Him."

Anders laughed, a low and bitter chuckle. "And what if Corypheus and the others traveled the Fade to take the Golden City? He said it was already black, tainted. What if he was lying?"

"And what if he wasn't?" Maxwell challenged. "What if it was demons? Or something we never saw before? And even if he was telling the truth, or even if the Chantry had it right, Anders, you've told me about the oppression of your people. Do you believe the Chantry is right to do that to mages even a thousand years later? _You_ opened my eyes to the horrors of the Circle. Don't doubt yourself. Don't let Corypheus make you doubt yourself."

"...You sound like Hawke."

Maxwell smiled. "He quotes the Chant of Light? I find that hard to believe." He squeezed Anders' hand and went back to the washing.

"No. But when you said… I changed your mind?" He sounded hopeful.

"Mm." Maxwell nodded. "I never gave mages a lot of thought."

"No one ever does," Anders said, the bitter tone returning.

"Hawke was a little intimidating when I asked him about you." Maxwell thought he saw a smile there, but as it was gone just as quickly, it was difficult to tell. "But it wasn't until you and I started talking that I really understood what it was like for mages. When you speak of your father and your childhood, and I realize what happened to you, it makes me feel…" He took a breath. "Locking up mages, even for their own protection, isn't the answer."

"I'm impressed. Most nobles would call you mad. They likely are, with my name being brought up as your ally."

"Yes, well, the nobles can sod right off," Maxwell said, irritated. "We're fighting a war and their only hardship is that the prices of their favorite wines are inflating." He loved his family, but he felt more comfortable being surrounded by the members of the Chantry. Those who gave up their lavish lives to help the less fortunate. He knew he shouldn't be angry because they happened to have different values. Still, if anyone spoke out against the Inquisition because they decided to ally with Anders and his mages, he would have to rethink certain friendships from back home. He helped Anders stack the clean dishes, and decided to change the topic slightly. "Do you think Corypheus is going to start razing cities?"

"Like Starkhaven?" Anders asked. "Not unless they fight back. Your suggestion to keep a low profile was a smart one. Most cities in the Free Marches will make it out untouched. Antiva and Rivain seem too remote for the moment."

"And Nevarra's given a neutral hand so far," Maxwell finished. "I expect we won't be hearing from the Anderfels either. Weisshaupt is completely silent. Any remaining Grey Wardens-" He paused, looking at Anders curiously.

"There are three of us left in this part of Thedas who aren't enslaved to demons or otherwise dead."

"Four," Maxwell said, mentally tallying up the Wardens on their side. "Blackwall as well."

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to talk to him much." He pulled his coat on and took up the now clean dishes. "Perhaps when this is over. But he's with my old Warden-Commander. A good man."

Maxwell followed him, taking up his own bucket and they started back toward camp. "Why did you leave the Wardens? King Alistair had his duties, but you defected."

"Another long story," Anders said. "Nothing my commander could've done to change what happened. I'm just glad I was able to explain myself to him finally."

"And to find out he's Hawke's cousin! Small world." Maxwell smiled, not expecting Anders to return it, and wasn't surprised when he merely nodded.

The sound of leaves crunching underfoot gave them both pause, but the hesitation was short-lived when two elves appeared on the path in front of them. Anders' people.

"What is it?" Anders asked.

"They caught two spies trying to get into the camp," one of them said, taking the bucket from Anders. "They need your help with them. One says he's a friend of Hawke's."

The second elf reached for Maxwell's bucket and he handed it over.

"Where's Hawke?" Anders asked.

"On patrol with the Qunari."

Anders thanked them for the report and gestured for Maxwell to follow. Wondering who it could possibly be, Maxwell hurried after him. They reached a clearing inside the camp, pushing through a circle of curious onlookers. An elf and a man, tied up, gagged and blindfolded, knelt in the middle, and Maxwell wondered if they were Venatori spies. Somehow he doubted it, though.

"Fenris?" Anders asked, glancing first at the elf. He strode over purposefully and untied his gag and blindfold.

The elf – Fenris – glared up at him. "Mage."

The corners of Anders' mouth quirked slightly. When he glanced at the man, however, all amusement fled his face. "What's he doing here?"

The man's protests were muffled, and he struggled wildly against his bonds. Fenris edged away quickly as two mages emerged from the crowd, grabbing the man's arms to steady him. Anders held up a hand.

"Remove his blindfold and gag."

They did so, and Maxwell watched Anders' expression turn from bemusement and slight irritation to downright anger. The man's expression, his dark blue eyes fixed on Anders, matched. Whatever had happened between them, it was clear: these two _loathed_ one another. The man spat at Anders' feet, and one of the mages shoved him down.

"Stop," Anders said, voice deep and clear. "Pull him up. Untie the elf."

The orders were fulfilled, and Fenris got to his feet, massaging his wrists.

Anders turned to Fenris once more. "Why are you here?"

"I was looking for Hawke when I ran into-"

"You murderer!" the man shouted, and tried to leap forward.

Anders was faster, a wave of his hand sending the man crashing back toward the crowd, which parted quickly. "Gag him again." He looked at Fenris expectantly.

"I was in the Free Marches because I heard that's where Hawke was. I've spent six months tracking and trying to find him."

"You want to help Hawke," Anders said, voice even.

Fenris frowned. "The world is going to be destroyed by an ancient magister. One Hawke already killed."

Anders paused, eyebrow raised. "I suppose this isn't something you could stay away from."

The grin that settled on Fenris's face was mirthless, and positively feral. "No."

"This is Maxwell Trevelyan," Anders said, gesturing toward him. "The leader of the Inquisition. I'm sure we'll have a place for you. Hawke is here, on patrol currently. I'm sure he'll be…" He sighed. "Pleased to see you."

Maxwell returned the perfunctory nod that Fenris gave him, and they turned to see the commotion of the man – gagged once more – being dragged back and forced to his knees in the clearing. Only now he was glaring at Maxwell too.

"Did I say something?" Maxwell asked, confused as to why this man was so angry.

"Sebastian Vael," Anders said, and the name cleared up much of the confusion. "Doesn't explain why he's here though. In my camp." He looked at Fenris again. "I heard he was dead."

"I found him six weeks ago," Fenris said. "I…"

"What's going on?"

The crowd parted again and Maxwell saw Hawke and Bull come through, the latter scanning the crowd, relaxing only once he caught sight of Maxwell. Hawke was similarly looking at Anders, ignoring the two newcomers, and reached out, touching his arm. Anders shook his head and gestured to Fenris. The recognition in Hawke's face was almost comical, going from confused and wary to wide-eyed excitement. He closed the distance between them in two long strides and crushed the elf into a tight hug. Maxwell thought he heard a strangled sort of noise, and covered a laugh. Then Bull was next to him, making sure he was all right. Maxwell smiled fondly up at him.

"Warm reunion?" Bull asked quietly.

"Of a sort," Maxwell said, glancing to Sebastian, who had stopped struggling, but was still glaring at him. "The prince of Starkhaven."

Bull snorted. "Looks like he knows who you are too, judging from that look."

Hawke, who'd been asking questions of Fenris – how was he? how did he find them? where had he been? – looked down at Sebastian suddenly. Maxwell took an involuntary step back, glad that Hawke's anger wasn't directed at him. Sebastian met his glare.

"Hawke," Anders said quietly. "Fenris wants to help."

The statement did its job, Hawke glancing up, though his icy demeanor did not change. "And him?"

Anders sighed and looked at one of the mages who'd brought them to camp. "You blindfolded them."

"We did."

"We can't move camp again so soon," Anders said. "But we can't exactly trust him to keep quiet. Put him in a holding cabin for now. Until he calms down," he added.

Hawke pursed his lips and shook his head, but said nothing to contradict Anders, even though it was clear he didn't agree with the decision.

Anders looked at Maxwell as two of the mages dragged Sebastian away. "I think we should talk. Clear some things up, and figure out what's next."

Maxwell nodded in agreement, glancing up at Bull, who still seemed amused by the whole thing. "Sure," he said, and they followed Anders, Hawke, and Fenris to the large tent in the middle of camp.


	6. Chapter 6

After proper introductions and a quick history explaining how they'd come to know Fenris, Anders and Hawke had a quick, terse discussion about Sebastian.

"We've dealt with him before," Maxwell said, interrupting them. "He asked for help to hunt down Anders' associates. The way he phrased it, it sounded like he was going to raze the entire city looking for anyone who'd even met you."

Anders, sitting across the table from Maxwell, nodded. "He may have."

"He would have," Hawke interjected. "He called for Anders' head. He said he'd come back and burn the city to the ground unless I killed him."

Maxwell's eyes widened, not having heard this part of the story. "But he was a Chantry brother." He frowned. "How could anyone who claims to be so righteous say something like that? There's no justice in revenge." He gave a passing thought for Dorian, someone he actively tried to _not_ think about, and shifted uncomfortably. He knew he would have to learn to forgive him, to not seek revenge for the things he did. And a large part of him hoped he never saw Dorian again, just so he wouldn't have to deal with facing the feelings of guilt and anger that surged every now and again. "The Chantry teaches forgiveness. To show mercy."

"I expect he conveniently skipped out of that sermon," Hawke growled. "Or maybe, knowing him, he thought he was doing the Maker's work."

Maxwell shook his head. "I'm glad now more than ever that we drove him out of Kirkwall."

"Maker knows that city didn't need any more strife," Hawke agreed.

"And he wasn't smart enough to listen to you to keep his head down," Bull added. "Got his city sacked by Venatori and Red Templars. Got a lot of people killed by being stupid."

"So what do you plan on doing with him?" Maxwell asked, looking at Anders.

Anders looked at Hawke, then to Fenris, who sat on Hawke's other side, silent for most of their talk. "King Alistair could use the help in Ferelden. Last I checked Fenris was good with a sword."

Fenris's expression remained carefully blank, and Hawke nudged him a little.

"Sebastian can fight, but I'm not sure we can trust him," Anders said. "Fenris, would you speak for him?"

"No."

The response was swift and definite, and Maxwell frowned at the surety. "Why not?"

"He is not the same man I knew in Kirkwall," Fenris admitted. "Power has… changed him."

"And now he's got no army," Hawke said. "He can't do much damage."

"One man can topple an entire organization," Maxwell whispered, feeling sick. Bull gripped his thigh under the table, and Maxwell covered his hand with his own. "Let me talk to him."

"Boss, I don't know-"

"Bull, please. If I can find out what he's thinking or-"

"He wants Anders dead," Hawke said flatly. "You're not going to reason with him. We should just let him go."

"He knows where we are." Anders looked at him. "We can't take the chance of-"

"Then we kill him."

"No, Hawke, I don't want-"

Maxwell stood up, hands flat on the tabletop as he leaned in. "Please. Let me do this."

"Going to make him see the light, kid?" Hawke asked, crossing his arms.

It was the first time Hawke addressed him as such, and in a way that made Maxwell feel belittled. He stood straight, chin raised. "I might not have the experience you do, or be able to fight very well. But I was born to be given to the Chantry. I think I'm in the best position to speak with him. And you've little other option." He frowned. "And I won't let you kill him."

"I don't think _anyone_ wants that, despite the situation," Anders said, tossing a stern look at Hawke, who was frowning, arms crossed.

"If he doesn't agree to work with us, we'll send him to Ostwick with a guard," Maxwell continued. "My father will hold him as a political prisoner for the Inquisition until we sort out what to do with him after. Whatever he is, he's still the prince of Starkhaven."

"Leader of a pile of rubble," Hawke said, which earned him another look from Anders. "What?"

Anders shook his head and sighed. "You can talk to him. I don't know what kind of difference it'll make, but if you can convince him to work with King Alistair, or the Grand Duke. Anyone."

"I'll do my best," Maxwell assured them, and looked at Bull. "And you can stand just outside." He knew Bull was going to anyway, or maybe he would've insisted on being in the tent as well. Though he didn't think that would be very conducive in actually talking with Sebastian.

Anders went with him to dismiss the mages who stood guard, and Maxwell ducked into the tent, frowning when he saw the inside. An unused cot, a small stand with a pitcher of water and a cup, and a pole in the middle holding the canvas up. Sebastian was tied to the pole, gagged but not blindfolded. His stark, sapphire eyes were fixed on Maxwell, and they narrowed when he entered. Maxwell let the tent flap fall behind him, approached slowly, knelt down, and gingerly removed the gag. Sebastian's lips were chapped, red at the corners, and he remained silent. Maxwell poured water from the pitcher and returned to him, offering him the cup.

"Please don't spit this in my face," he said softly. "I just want to talk." He waited, and when Sebastian nodded, Maxwell helped him drink a few sips. He set the cup aside and sat back. "I'm sorry they treated you this way."

"Are you?" Sebastian asked, his thick Starkhaven brogue deep and gravelly.

"Would you promise me that you wouldn't try to hurt me if I untied you?"

"Would I even get two steps outside this tent if I tried to escape?"

Maxwell shook his head. "No, but I thought we could have a slightly more civilized conversation if one of us wasn't tied up."

"I'd still be a prisoner. It makes no difference to me." Sebastian looked away, huffing.

Maxwell pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs tightly. "I only know Anders' side of the story."

"Yet you would side with him without a moment's hesitation. We were allies, Inquisitor, and you turned your back on me."

"You were going to attack a city that in the midst of recovering."

"From a depraved act of the man with whom _you_ chose to ally!" Sebastian snapped, glaring at him.

"Regardless, Kirkwall isn't to blame," Maxwell said, never raising his voice. Pointing out Anders' reasoning behind what he did wouldn't earn him any favors, not with Sebastian. Regardless of how he felt, he needed to remain open to what Sebastian was saying. This was once a man of the Maker, someone who had fervent belief and somehow lost his way. He saw Leliana go through the same thing back in Haven and Skyhold. Divine Justinia's death was a terrible loss for all of them, but she took it very hard. He remembered when they got word in Ostwick of the chantry's destruction. He was only sixteen, still a boy really, still trying to figure out who he was. But he turned, as he always had, to the Maker to pray for understanding. Had Sebastian turned his back because of that incident?

"I was going to interrogate those who harbored him. The city still holds many of his associates."

"They're all likely here now, with him," Maxwell reasoned. "But if you did find one of his friends in Kirkwall. What would have done? Tortured them?"

"No! Of course not."

"And if they didn't want to speak to you?" Maxwell continued, keeping his voice soft. "Would you have them imprisoned? On what charges?"

"Harboring a known felon."

"Anders and Hawke left the city the same day."

"Withholding information vital to the location of a known felon," Sebastian said, changing tact.

Maxwell leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. "You wanted him dead. You would've stopped at nothing to see him dead."

"He murdered innocent people!"

"I'm not denying his crimes are grave." Maxwell paused, letting Sebastian hear the words, and realize he wasn't here to berate him or stand in support of Anders and his actions. "When he joined the Inquisition, the day he came to me, he submitted himself for judgment."

"What gives you the authority over anyone else to judge what he's done?" Sebastian's tone still held a hard edge, but at least he was looking at Maxwell now. "You're just a boy."

"It's true. I'm young. As everyone seems happy to point out." Maxwell looked at his palm, a faint greenish glow that no longer bothered him, but still made him curious. "I don't know if I'm touched by Andraste or the Maker. But I do know they're with me. But I question myself every day. Am I doing what's right? Have I made all the right decisions? Bull tells me war is the same, people die. But did I make the choice that Andraste would have?"

" _I_ made the right choices," Sebastian insisted. "Kirkwall has always been a deeply troubled city, and I would have brought that peace to them."

"By force? If you achieve peace through war, is it really worth it? I remember a conversation I had with someone, a good woman. Mother Giselle."

"Aye, I know of her."

"Knew," Maxwell said sadly. "I don't think she made it after..." He frowned, and touched the pendant of Andraste at his throat, likely calling attention to the bruise there as well. Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Mother Giselle said that if you force choice, it's not a true choice. To take away the free will that the Maker has given us is a terrible thing. I was asking about Corypheus, but it applies to so many things."

"When were you officially dedicated to the Chantry?"

Maxwell smiled. "I was six. I didn't really understand it. I just liked the ceremony of it. The candles and the incense and the pretty statues of Andraste."

Sebastian actually chuckled. "Oh I hated it. Sitting still for so long. It drove me mad."

"It wasn't all bad," Maxwell said. "I wasn't like my brothers. Michael was going to follow in Father's footsteps, and George was right there with me, taking his vows. But he got to go outside while I stayed in to study."

"Your brother is a templar?"

"He is. One of the few that remained in Ostwick. I'm glad I didn't ask him to join me in Skyhold. Who knows if he would've survived? And he's looking after the rest of my family."

"I regret the time I spent hating my family," Sebastian admitted. "For putting me in the Chantry. It wasn't until later I realized they did it for my own good. And then when I was about your age, they… were murdered."

Maxwell frowned. He'd heard about the incident, the whispers among the nobles in Ostwick about what happened. "I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago."

"Did you talk to the Maker after it happened?"

Sebastian scoffed, resting his head against the pole, eyes fixed on the canvas ceiling. "No. I was too angry. Too confused."

"He's still listening."

Silence for a moment, and Sebastian closed his eyes. "Aye. I know."

"But you lost someone else. Someone in the chantry that night," Maxwell pressed gently. When Sebastian nodded but didn't speak, Maxwell inched closer to him. "Tell me."

"She was the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall's chantry," Sebastian said quietly. "The only one who listened to me. The only one who understood how miserable I was there. She helped me leave one night. And I went. But I couldn't stay away. I heard her voice in my head and I thought about the choices I had."

"She gave you a choice." Maxwell undid the knots of the rope that tied Sebastian to the pole, and took one of his hands in both his own. Sebastian watched him as he carefully massaged his wrist. "She sounds like a good woman. This war that Corypheus started, we've lost a lot of good men and women. I know you're a good person, Sebastian."

Sebastian reached up with his free hand and touched the pendant of Andraste around Maxwell's neck. "Did your parents give you that?"

"It was a present from my father. I've had it since I was a baby."

Sebastian reached into his own tunic and pulled out a similar looking one, and smiled. "My grandfather gave me mine."

Maxwell grinned. "Bull makes fun of me sometimes for how often I touch mine." He let Sebastian's wrist go and sat back.

"I was the youngest of three boys as well. It sounds like your parents had your birth planned out. I was… something of an accident," Sebastian said. "Maker, I do miss them."

"They're at peace now. And we strive every day to make Thedas better in the Maker's name. To make Him and them proud of us. At least, I think that's what they would want. I lost a dear friend at Skyhold. She was a Seeker. Liked to tease me. Her faith never wavered, and she helped me through a lot of difficult times. I miss her every day. But I keep going because I have to. Because I want to. Because so many people depend on us, Sebastian."

"You're the Inquisitor."

"No," Maxwell corrected. "Brothers of the faith. We need to rebuild the Chantry, to restore the faith of those who lost it. To be there for those who want the Maker's guidance. And when this is over, the Inquisition will help you rebuild Starkhaven. But you have to survive. We need you. And you need us."

"...He murdered Elthina. A good woman of faith. The Maker-"

"Does as He sees fit."

"Why did he have to take her?" Sebastian asked, truly sounding so lost that Maxwell's heart broke just a little for him.

"I don't know," Maxwell admitted, lips pursed in a mirthless smile. He reached out and took Sebastian's hand again, squeezing tightly. "I told Leliana the same thing when she asked me why He took Divine Justinia. Good people die, but there's always a reason. Maybe to make you realize you needed to return to Starkhaven. That your people needed you."

"For all the good it did," Sebastian whispered.

Maxwell thought it wouldn't be very prudent to point out that if Sebastian had simply listened to him, the Venatori likely wouldn't have destroyed the city. "There's still a city to save, Sebastian. You still have people loyal to you."

"Do I?"

"Fight with us. Help us. And when you return to Starkhaven again, I'll make sure you have the Inquisition's support."

Sebastian nodded. "And what of Anders?"

"When this is over, the Inquisition will judge him. Only the Maker can judge his soul, though." It wasn't quite a lie. Maxwell had already judged Anders. He couldn't place blame on someone whose people had been so persecuted, who fought so hard for equality. And it was clear Anders still carried guilt for what he felt he had to do. Maxwell wondered what would have happened if the Seekers had investigated Kirkwall. If Cassandra – who felt the guilt over the chantry explosion as well – would have looked further into the proposed crimes. As Hawke said, beatings, Tranquility used as a punishment and not a last resort, heinous crimes committed by the templars there. And now most of those templars were suffering a terrible fate of their own. It was easy to throw blame around, but Maxwell couldn't.

"All right. You have my word as a fellow Chantry Brother," Sebastian promised. "My bow is at your service."

Maxwell shook his hand firmly, then stood, helping him up. "There's talk of sending Fenris to Ferelden where he can help our other men there. An attack on a southern coastal town, then a pincer move to retake the capital. Do you think you can follow orders from the Hero of Ferelden?"

Sebastian's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Goodness. You've gathered quite a following."

Maxwell grinned. "And now I can add the Prince of Starkhaven to that as well."

Sebastian chuckled. "That you can," he said, following Maxwell from the tent. "That you can."


	7. Chapter 7

_Sending you two more capable fighters along with the backup requested. The angry elf can do this glowy thing where he rips people's hearts out of their chest. I'm sure there's a use for him somewhere. Be nice to him. I might ask him to join us once this is all done. Oh and don't tell him you're a Vint. Got the impression he's not fond of them. The other's an archer. Prince of Starkhaven. Kind of an asshole. Boss says he's all good now though. And whatever you're thinking about me and him – don't. Don't die. That's an order._

Krem smirked at the paper in his hand, deciphering Bull's untidy scratching across the page. They hadn't seen a lot of each other in the last year, Krem stationed in Ferelden with the rest of the Chargers and an extremely ragtag group of soldiers and nobles. He received regular reports from the chief, and there was always a line or two of banter in there about the Inquisitor. Krem had asked in the last note when the wedding would be, teasing him about his obvious crush. Reading between the lines, something definitely happened. And once they did their business here in Ferelden and returned to the Free Marches, Krem would be sure to tease the ever living fuck out of him. He missed Bull, but they were in good hands here.

King Alistair was technically in charge, poring over maps of the southeast of Ferelden where they were currently camped, waiting to move on the port city of Gwaren. The plan was pretty simple. Send in the sappers, take down the walls. Archers stationed atop the tallest building – likely the chantry – to give cover for the warriors below. Get to the docks and liberate the ships. Avoid killing civilians. Their intelligence revealed that there weren't many left, however. Chances were slim of finding any that were still human and not eaten by the red lyrium. Krem's orders on the lyrium were simple: don't touch it. He'd seen more than his fair share of Red Templars, and avoiding the stuff hadn't been a hardship.

The Chargers knew how to work with other groups; half were already heading north with Inquisition soldiers and a handful of Ferelden's finest. Well, Krem didn't know if they were Ferelden's finest, just that they were Fereldan and part of the king's army. He'd met most of them in Redcliffe until the city became overrun and they had to regroup further east. As most of that area had been destroyed by the Blight over a decade ago, there wasn't much interest in it or the surrounding area from the Red Templars. They camped for a few nights in a place called Ostagar, where Krem watched Alistair and the Hero of Ferelden pay respects to a burnt out funeral pyre. Hearing the soldiers talk, it was the king's half-brother, killed by darkspawn. Shitty fate for anyone, he thought.

Other than Redcliffe, a lot of Ferelden's strongholds were up north. The country relied a lot on coastal trade and agreements with Orzammar. Its fields, Krem realized, would have to be carefully handled afterward with the removal of tons of red lyrium. Thankfully though, that was not his job description. Neither was pouring wine for the king of Ferelden, but he looked like he could use it, or something stronger. Sadly they didn't have anything but the wine, and he handed a cup to Alistair, who looked over distractedly. Krem doubted he realized he was no longer alone in the tent, a surprised expression on his face when he finally looked up.

"Oh. Thank you," Alistair said, taking the cup. "You didn't have to do that."

"You looked like you needed it."

Alistair chuckled nervously. Or maybe that was just his normal laugh. A couple of months spent with him, and Krem still couldn't pin down this guy's deal. He only seemed to be completely at ease when the Hero of Ferelden was around. But Amell took Bull's newest recruits and half their soldiers and headed north. They would take Denerim by land while Krem and the remaining soldiers aided the attack by sea. Once the king was back on his throne and reinforcements from the Free Marches came across the Waking Sea, they would take back the Inquisition camps and the northern cities. Krem had never seen Amaranthine, their target after Denerim, but overheard the Fereldan soldiers talk about it as if it were a lost jewel.

"You ready for this, Your Grace?"

"Did I ever tell you the story of how my father once did the very same thing we're doing? I mean, not the whole Red Templar thing. But saving the country when it was occupied. Of course that was from Orlesians, not monsters. But some would probably say it's the same thing, I guess." He sipped the wine, then coughed, choking a bit.

Krem thumped him on the back. Not for the first time, he wondered how much the story of his becoming king was embellished and how much was fact. But he was in charge and despite his weird quirks and self-deprecating humor, he seemed to know what he was doing. His men followed him with a manic fervor normally reserved for gods, and he was a damn good fighter. In fact, Krem was reminded of Bull. Someone who led from the front lines and didn't let everyone else do their fighting for them. He spared an unfair thought for the Inquisitor, safely ensconced in the Free Marches somewhere, and pushed it aside just as quickly. They all had their parts to play.

"The uh, king who freed Ferelden from the Orlesians," Krem said to save him from the embarrassment of choking on his wine. "Yeah, think I read about that in a history book somewhere."

"'Maric the Savior' they called him."

"Maybe they'll give you a fancy nickname," Krem teased.

"Maker, I hope not!" Alistair sounded horrified at the idea. "I'm trusting you to tell the storywriters how I cowered in a corner or something so they'll leave me out of the final draft."

"Not in it for the glory?"

"That would be my brother." Alistair smoothed out the edge of the map and took another, more careful sip of wine. "We'll leave in two days' time. Are your men ready?"

Krem nodded. "Don't you worry about us. We know where to be. After all, we haven't let you down yet, right?"

"Well there's a first time for everything. Not that I think you would," Alistair added quickly. "I mean, you know what you're doing so there's no reason why you would. Let me down."

If Krem hadn't figured the king for a bit of an idiot by now, he might have taken offense at the accidental slight against his boys. Instead, he just shrugged. "We've got your back." He gave Alistair another thump on the back for emphasis, and ducked out of the tent to go find Rocky. After all, if they were going to be taking down walls, they would need to be prepared.

-

Gwaren, meaning _salt pool_ , lived up to its name. Blackwall could smell the salt in the air long before they even reached the city's walls. It seemed such a remote place that it was odd that so many significant things happened there. But this is where they'd been ordered to go, and if nothing else, Blackwall trusted the Inquisitor. When he heard about what happened at Skyhold a year ago, he mourned the loss of a good man. And when it turned out that the Inquisitor somehow survived, that was nothing short of another miracle. He just seemed to pull them off one after the other. Regrouping was bittersweet, learning about the fates of so many Inquisition members. And Skyhold itself? Probably burned to ashes. It was a damn shame.

It wasn't his place to say what would happen to the traitor who caused it all, and Blackwall was grateful he wasn't likely to be part of the fight that might involve Dorian. He felt like a bit of a hypocrite to judge him, especially when he lying to the Inquisitor as well. But it wasn't about being a back-stabbing bastard, just dodging his past. Maybe, he thought, once this was over, he would tell the Inquisitor the story. If he could do just one last, good thing, maybe the guilt over what happened would ease just a little before the headsman's axe came down on his neck.

"What's got you all up inside your own head?"

"Do you really want to know the answer to that?" Blackwall asked, glancing down at Sera, who leaned against her bow a little, grinning in her usual lopsided way. Enough missions together and he'd grown fond of her. Like a niece he never had, but could still feel comfortable telling dirty jokes with.

"Wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know." She blew a raspberry. "Like I don't have better things to do with my time."

"You don't," Blackwall reminded her. "We're waiting for a signal from the Chargers."

"Well if you're going to be all logistical and shite," she laughed.

One of the soldiers in the clearing ahead turned back to shush them. Blackwall raised a placating hand. Sera raised a hand too, but the gesture she made was far from placating.

"Thought Fereldan soldiers would be less up their own arses, but nope."

"They're tense. Worried." Blackwall frowned, watching the horizon. A curl of smoke rose up over the tree line and in the distance they heard the sound of an explosion.

"That's the signal, move out!" the Fereldan captain ordered.

Sera knocked Blackwall on the shoulder. "You can bore me to death later, yeah? Once we bash some heads in."

Blackwall watched her run off. She turned back and waved briefly, which he returned, and they continued their trek toward Gwaren.

-

Krem yanked his sword free from another templar, a spurt of blood fountaining up from the wound in its neck, gurgling as it died. He turned a second later to match blades with another, every move calculated, almost automatic. Parrying another blow, ducking, and thrusting forward. What the Tevinter army hadn't taught him, the Iron Bull did. He remembered the order - _Don't die_. Clearing a path to the docks was his job along with a dozen others. Arrows and magic flew from the rooftops, giving them the cover they needed to secure the ships and subsequently the cannons that they could use to turn the tides of the battle. As he suspected, there weren't any signs of citizens in the town. If actual non-infected people remained, they were hiding. Better that way, he decided.

"Krem watch your flank!" someone yelled out.

Krem ducked without turning to check, leg kicking out to knock his attacker to the ground. A huge crystal-ridden behemoth, arms raised together, about to use its rock-like fists as a battering ram, toppled toward him. A hand clamped on his arm and yanked him out of the path before it fell. King Alistair, expression fierce and focused, released him and swung his sword wide, catching the behemoth in a vulnerable spot near what used to be its neck. Momentary surprise over, Krem leapt to assist him, hacking the thing's limbs into pieces.

"Bloody things just keep getting bigger," Alistair quipped. He glanced to make sure Krem was all right, then turned and raced toward the docks.

Krem followed, hearing the sounds of boots on cobblestones as more of their companions joined them. The quick attack caught the Red Templars by surprise as they planned, but there were more of them than they'd accounted for. He wondered if they'd make a mistake sending their second group on ahead to Denerim to save the travel time. They could've used the extra backup. Too late to think about that now though. He saw the docks ahead with the ships, some of their soldiers already racing up the ramps to clear any Red Templars, and rushed to join the fray.

_BOOM!_

One of the cannons fired, echoing over the sea like a crack of thunder. King Alistair was on the docks with five of his men, holding the line so they could take the ships unimpeded. Another canon boom and a shout rose from the archers and mages up on the walls. He looked up at the chantry's roof and caught sight of Sera, who was firing arrows down faster than even the Fereldan soldiers. The light of dawn behind him, Krem saw an odd shadow moving quickly behind her. Not one of their own people.

"LOOK OUT!" he shouted, but it was useless. He was too far away, the sounds of the battle too loud.

The Red Templar shadow was a quick and deadly beast. Silent as the thing it was named for, it scurried up behind Sera, one red crystal arm piercing her leg. Krem saw her cry out, watched her turn and fire an arrow. But it leapt up, hitting her in the chest. She swung around again, throwing it off, but her tunic was covered in blood. Krem heard another cry, deeper, more desperate, and saw Blackwall still in the city, eyes up on Sera.

"Shit. Cover me!" he shouted to one of the Fereldan archers on the ship.

He leapt off the ship, landing hard on the docks, the impact jarring his knees. But he didn't stop, recognizing the sudden shock in Blackwall, his inability to take his eyes from Sera, who was firing arrows still at the shadow creature. Krem ducked through the line and leapt out of the way of a blow from another Red Templar.

"SERA!" Blackwall bellowed.

Then Krem saw it. Sera, falling from the chantry's roof, firing off two more arrows before she reached into her pocket. With speed and reflexes Krem had never seen before, she threw the flask at the ground where a group of templars started to emerge from another building. The flask exploded in a burst of flames, the templars catching fire instantly. He heard the thud as Sera hit the ground, but her body disappeared in the chaos of enraged, flaming templars. Krem shoved Blackwall aside, blocking a blow that would've taken him down. Blackwall stumbled, then came back to himself. With a ferocity born from grief, Blackwall came up swinging hard. Krem watched his back, knowing the blind rage caused by the death of a companion. And while he felt his own loss for Sera, now wasn't the time to mourn her.

Two cannon blasts in quick succession covered them, Red Templars falling to their left and right. King Alistair and his men pushed forward, clearing the docks, and Krem watched Blackwall cut a path through the ones that were left. He followed, but the battle was over. The Chargers converged on the corpses, cutting throats and checking pulses to make sure they wouldn't suffer a surprise attack from ones they thought dead. Smoke hung thickly in the air, but he followed Blackwall through the worst of it, watched him fall to his knees and shove aside the Red Templar shadow beast. Sera, limbs akimbo, torso bloody, and flesh burnt, lay dead on the steps on the chantry. Blackwall pulled her limp body against his chest, and cried.

Krem turned away to give him his privacy and waved down Alistair, who approached. He lowered his voice. "Throat cutters will take care of the rest."

Alistair peered over his shoulder at Blackwall, looking pained, then turned back to Krem. "We're securing the ships now and we'll be ready to set sail in two hours. Unless…"

Krem nodded. "We'll be ready," he assured him. "We'll make sure none of them got away to send word to their officers, and sweep the town for any civilians that might be hiding."

"Right," Alistair said, sighing. "Report back in twenty minutes with your findings."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Alistair gave one last look at Blackwall, and Krem could see the empathy in his expression, how he wanted to comfort him. But it wasn't his place, and he turned to go back to the ship. Krem shook his head, then paused, something shiny catching his eye amidst the rubble. He toed over a body of a Red Templar and pulled Sera's bow from the wreckage, the metal grip still bright and polished. He approached Blackwall carefully, placed a hand on his shoulder, and looked down at red-rimmed eyes.

"She took a ton of the bastards down with her, brave thing," Krem said, handing the bow to Blackwall. "Take as much time as you need."

Without waiting for an answer, he left Blackwall to his grief in order to fill Alistair's orders, and to write a letter to Bull.


	8. Chapter 8

Dinners at the estate were dull and tedious. Before he left Tevinter, Dorian would have used the opportunity to look for a potential lover for the evening. During dessert he would slip away with the son of some important person and be thoroughly fucked before coffee in the lounge. His desire to fall into temptation was impeded by the fact that many of the dinner guests were Venatori. Those who weren't were either trying to join the Venatori, or magisters who were vying for power. Dorian found this all rather distasteful even before the things that had happened to him, but tolerable. Sometimes they were even amusing, watching the careful banter turn vicious and entertaining and then someone unleashed a fireball and the party would sadly end. He would have taken that over this any day. None of the assembled magisters seemed to want to annoy or otherwise upset Lucanus, who insisted on hosting these lavish parties at least once a week.

"Oh yes, I'm quite ready for the predicted frost this winter," said a tall, reedy man with black hair and goatee to match. His violet eyes were sharp, and Dorian vaguely remembered the man, if only because he hailed from the city that shared a name with an Inquisition member: Solas. Magister Faustinus Scaevola owned several of the largest, most productive vineyards in Tevinter.

Dorian pushed the rice around his plate, only half-listening as the other guests discussed crops and wealth, and his mind strayed to Alexius, who once expressed the idea of retiring to the country to grow his own vineyard. He allowed himself a brief daydream of joining his mentor there, sipping wine over dinner and discussing the future of the country. He would never replace Felix, but Alexius would call him, 'my boy' like he usually did, and smile at him proudly. And Dorian would feel like he finally had someone he wanted to call father. But the fantasy abruptly ended when he recalled Alexius's immobile body in his arms, the tears he shed for his former mentor. He failed him, just how he'd failed himself, and his actual father, and everyone who ever depended on him.

"I'm sure the Venatori would be happy to discuss the details of the trade agreement."

_Not everyone,_ Dorian corrected, looking up and catching Lucanus's eye. Though younger than most of the assembled men by at least two decades, Lucanus sat at the head of the table. He smirked at Dorian, lifting a glass to him before taking a sip. Dorian flinched. The move called attention to himself, and one of the men – a dark-skinned, bald magister with one milky white eye – looked down at him.

"We never heard the story as to how you came to be in the Venatori," he said, his voice deep and smooth.

"Oh Dorian's not an official member," Lucanus said, bringing the conversation back toward himself.

_More like a pet,_ Dorian thought, chagrined. They promised him more than this. They promised him power and wealth, not that he vied for any of that. He would've settled for the absence of the constant anxiety in the pit of his stomach, the sick feeling he got whenever he had another nightmare. It eased slightly whenever Lucanus spoke to him, and more so when Servis paid him a visit. But he was slowly realizing that these men weren't his friends. They didn't care if he succeeded in anything. Not the way Alexius did. He was a pawn. They used him. And he'd let them.

And then the men were standing. Some excused themselves for an early night, but most agreed with Lucanus that it was time for coffee or brandy in the parlor. Dorian stood as well and watched Lucanus approach him. Despite his almost cherubic face he looked formidably angry, and grabbed Dorian's wrist tightly, leaning in to press his lips against his ear.

"If you embarrass me, I will see that you remember your place. Understand?"

"Yes," Dorian said, because it was the only right answer.

"Think about heading to bed early."

The grip on his wrist released and Dorian waited until he was alone in the empty room to let out a breath. He was a prisoner. Albeit one in a very pretty cage, but he had nowhere else to go. He thought about what Cole suggested, to write to his father again, or perhaps to simply show up on the doorstep of the Pavus estate and beg to be readmitted into the family. Laughing bitterly, he wondered if he finally lost the last shred of pride he had to even consider that. At least here he could pretend he was part of something greater.

_You were part of something greater. You could have been. You gave it up. For this._

He left the dining room and started down the long hallway toward the double doors of the lounge, stopping to look over the railing to the ground floor of the estate.

"I'm glad you're not thinking about it."

Cole's voice was soothing, and Dorian had long grown used to him appearing out of nowhere to say random things. It was comforting. "Thinking about what?" he asked, turning to look at the full suit of armor behind him.

Cole stepped out from the alcove, kicking his feet a little at the carpet. "When the elves pass this place, they think about throwing themselves off it in order to escape."

"I'm not quite that desperate yet," Dorian said. Though the truth was whenever his thoughts did stray in that direction, he quickly redirected his mind to try to distract himself. If he started thinking about it, _really_ thinking about it, there would be no going back. So long as he was still alive, there was at least a small beacon of hope. A possibility. "Didn't care to stay for the meal?"

"I was there. I watched. They use so many words to say so little."

"That's politics in a nutshell."

"Why would you put politics in a nutshell?"

Dorian smiled. It was small, but sincere. "It's just a saying, Cole."

"Oh. I see."

"How can you see anything with that hat?" Dorian asked, flicking the brim gently.

"No, I mean I understand."

"I'm teasing."

"...Humans are so strange."

"Yes," Dorian agreed. "We quite are. How are you getting on without the thrall?"

"It feels… only a little different," Cole said, and walked to the railing. He leaned over it a little, looking down. "Like a small shift, sliding slightly, softer. I feel… sadder."

Dorian frowned. "How so?"

Cole held his hands out, palms up, and pressed the edges of his little fingers together. "I felt a link. Quiet but comfortable. At first it was terrifying, like leaping off a cliff into water. But then there was more." He folded his hands, palms together, and entwined his fingers.

"The link… grew?"

"Possibly."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"The binding wasn't complete. More blood for binding."

Dorian felt slightly ill at the implications. "Ah. Yes. To bind a demon to yourself, you have to use quite a bit of blood." Slaves being the preferred victims, of course. He used his own blood, which wasn't _technically_ blood magic. But it wasn't as powerful as blood forcibly taken.

"If you could bind me that way, then so could others." Cole's voice shook as he spoke. "You wouldn't ask me to hurt anyone."

"No. I wouldn't." Dorian knew that as a spirit of compassion, it would go against Cole's very nature to hurt someone without mercy. Twisting a spirit to do that would have dangerous repercussions.

"But others _would_!" Cole insisted, hitting the railing with his clasped hands. "You have to do it again. You have to bind me to you so no one else can."

"Cole, I don't think that's-"

Cole disappeared suddenly and Dorian straightened at once. Lucanus stood some feet away, evidently having left the parlor to look for Dorian.

"That was the demon," Lucanus said. He glanced over his shoulder at the open doors and quickly stalked toward Dorian. "Did he say he was unbound? Is he going to return to the Inquisitor with information?"

"I… He was…"

Dorian winced as Lucanus grabbed his arms, fingernails digging into his skin. He had a momentary flash of a memory: arms and wrists shackled together behind him, kneeling on cold hard stone, Lucanus brandishing a whip, the leather coated in magebane and crackling with lightning. He felt the pain of the old, well-hidden scars, both physical and mental, and looked away. The familiar feeling of anxiety was back, crawling up from his gut into his chest, closing around his lungs so tightly he thought he would suffocate.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't lock you in your room for a month."

_Like a disobedient child,_ Dorian thought, and realized that solitary confinement would be no worse than his current predicament. "Perhaps you should," he said, and inhaled sharply.

"No," Lucanus said, releasing him. "No, I think I have something else planned for you." He scowled. "Bah. The demon doesn't have any pertinent information anyway. For that to happen, you'd actually have to be important enough to be privy to our discussions. Go. I can't stand the sight of you right now."

Dorian went quickly, not wanting to spend a moment longer in Lucanus's presence than he had to. Whatever Lucanus had planned, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. It definitely couldn't be anything good, after all. _Maybe I should try to write to my father again._

Trying to decide what was worse – possible torture or definite humiliation – Dorian retired for the night, but did not sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Bull stared at the letter in his hand, feeling a sick twisting in the pit of his stomach. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and took a breath. Krem's handwriting, crisp and precise, filled a page and a half report of the retaking of Gwaren. A successful capture of the city as Bull expected, but the news of Sera's death hit him hard. She was just a kid. She deserved better than life gave her. She went out fighting, but she shouldn't have had to fight in the first place. Ferelden never should've fallen. He clenched his fist, the paper crinkling in his hand. His other fist, pressed against the top of the desk, shook slightly and he had to restrain himself from driving it through the wood. People died. That's what he told Maxwell every time they spoke of grief.

The tent flap rustled. "Bull?"

"Yeah, boss?" He didn't look, eye focused on the rest of the letter, trying to place where the Chargers would be now. Likely already took Denerim. Runners weren't as fast as they used to be when they had Red's birds trained to deliver messages. The date on this one was over two weeks old. He hoped they'd get word from the capital soon. Maybe from Cullen, who was ferrying orders to Kirkwall and a few other coastal cities in the Free Marches.

"Brought you some lunch. You weren't around. Is everything all right?" Maxwell set the plate of food down on the desk and carefully touched his shoulder. "You're upset about something."

Bull wondered if there was a single person in the world who didn't dread delivering bad news. He covered Maxwell's hand with his own, and looked up at him. "Report from Krem. Gwaren's been taken."

Maxwell drew himself up, frowning. "And the bad news?"

"Sera… didn't make it."

"Maker," Maxwell whispered, closing his eyes.

His lips moved in silent prayer, touching his pendant, and Bull tossed the letter aside to pull him close. He wrapped his arms tightly around Maxwell, both giving and receiving comfort. Maxwell pressed his forehead to Bull's chest, breathing deeply, and then looked up at him.

"Did Krem say what happened?"

"Red Templar shadow. Quick little thing. But she took a dozen of them out with her."

"Probably cursing up a storm the entire time," Maxwell said in a fond tone. "Did they give her a funeral pyre?"

"I'm sure they did."

"I wish we had something here. A chantry I could… or someone to…"

"Isn't your Maker always watching?" Bull asked. "You don't need a fancy building for that, right?" Comforting Maxwell was a distraction from his own pain. He'd always had the ability to push away what was bothering him if someone else needed him more. While Maxwell wasn't fragile, he took these things very hard. Where Bull would just hit something harder than himself for an hour, Maxwell would want to pray. And as he couldn't spar with Maxwell, he would need to wait for Hawke to free up and help him work through that. After all, _he_ had taken down the damned _Arishok_. Something to be said about being basalit-an.

"No. I suppose not," Maxwell agreed.

"Come on. Let's go down by the field."

Leaving the plate of food behind – he wasn't particularly hungry anyway – but taking the cup of wine, Bull pulled Maxwell from the tent, holding tightly to his hand. If the other inhabitants of the camp hadn't guessed at their relationship before, they certainly knew it now. Not that Bull cared, nor did Maxwell seem to mind. He led him across the river and into the field where they first kissed. It wasn't as if Bull was a romantic or anything, but there was something peaceful about the meadow. Maxwell squeezed his hand before he knelt in the grass.

"You want me to, uh…"

Maxwell looked up at him, a small smile touching his lips. "It's not strictly required."

Bull sat instead, leaning back with a hand splayed in the soft mossy undergrowth, and sipped his wine. While he didn't really understand the religion behind Maxwell's Chantry, he understood rituals that brought comfort. There had been too much grief over the past year. At least they also had victories. You took the good with the bad. Bull hoped this victory and the future ones would leave them with more to celebrate and less to mourn. He listened to Maxwell, the familiar prayer from what he called, 'The Canticle of Trials' flowing like a poem. He reached up and softly touched the top of Maxwell's head once he finished, then let his hand slide down to his neck, massaging the tight muscles.

"I'm all right," Maxwell assured him. He sat, then leaned against Bull. "Poor Sera." He paused. "Maker, Blackwall was with her. I hope he…"

"Here. Drink." Bull handed him the cup of wine and watched him take a small, perfunctory sip. "Blackwall's a warrior. He'll get through it. And when you meet up with him again I'm sure you'll say all the right things to make him feel better." Bull looked down at Maxwell, soft blue eyes peering back up at him.

"Just because someone's a fighter doesn't mean they can't hurt."

Bull scoffed, taking the cup back. "Yeah. Ain't that the truth."

"I didn't mean…"

"I know, kadan." Bull kissed his forehead and finished off the wine, tossing the cup aside.

"Are you all right?"

"I will be," Bull admitted. "Once we take Corypheus's head."

Maxwell laughed, a nervous, sudden sound. "Right."

"Hey. Don't doubt yourself. You're getting really good with that sword. And I'll be with you. Plus a whole shit ton of other people who want to see that asshole dead."

"You have a succinct way of putting things. I've always like that about you," Maxwell confessed. "Ever since we first met. I still remember what you said to me. That you had something to tell me. That it might, uh… upset me."

"I said it might piss you off."

"I was paraphrasing," Maxwell said flatly.

"I wonder if you'd still keep that clean mouth once I'm in the middle of sucking your-"

"Stop!" Maxwell's pale cheeks turned pink. "We're in mourning. Maker's sake, Bull."

"You know I do that just to see you get all flustered." Bull crooked a finger under Maxwell's chin.

"I figured as much," Maxwell said, and leaned up for a kiss, which Bull quite happily gave.

The clanking of plate metal, the crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot, and the polite coughing of a newcomer caused Maxwell to pull back abruptly. Bull glanced up to see Cullen standing awkwardly, averting his eyes.

"Yes, Commander?" Maxwell asked, trying to cover up his slight embarrassment.

Bull, who wasn't embarrassed a bit, raised a hand. "Welcome back."

"Erm. Yes, thank you," Cullen said, and turned to address Maxwell. "I've just come from Kirkwall. They received the signal to move and we've a fleet of ships crossing the Waking Sea as we speak. We'll need to move as soon as possible and aid in the effort to push through to the south of Ferelden. Redcliffe will not be easy to claim, and we should center our forces there."

"All right!" Bull said, excited. "Finally some action." Not that he minded staying at camp with Maxwell, guarding him on the off chance they were attacked while in hiding, but it had been too long since he was sent for a skirmish. He was starting to get a little stir-crazy.

Maxwell, on the other hand, looked ill at the prospect. "Is there no chance of negotiating surrender at Redcliffe?"

"The castle's defenses are impeccable. We might find ourselves in a siege situation," Cullen explained. "If they were normal soldiers, we could starve them out."

"But Red Templars don't eat, do they?" Maxwell asked. He wasn't sure.

"We don't exactly know what sustains them," Cullen said, uncomfortable at the thought. "I'm afraid attacking the castle will be our only option. We can use the same passage you did when dealing with the magister."

"Alexius," Maxwell insisted. "He might have been of Tevinter, but he deserves that respect, Cullen. He helped us quite a bit."

"Yes, of course. My apologies, Inquisitor."

_Shame he wasn't able to do anything about Dorian,_ Bull thought, getting irritated as he did whenever his thoughts turned in that direction.

"When do we leave for Redcliffe?"

Cullen gestured back at the camp. "It depends on how many men the Champion is willing to part with, and if he's coming with us."

Bull noticed Cullen didn't call them Anders' men. While the people they moved with had a definite loyalty to Hawke, it seemed to be Anders that they answered to. But Cullen likely wouldn't ever acknowledge that.

"I'll talk to them," Maxwell said, finally standing. 

He brushed himself off, then helped Bull to his feet, somewhat ineffectually. Bull appreciated it nevertheless. It meant he wasn't something Maxwell was ashamed of, even if he had been initially embarrassed. Cullen noticed it too, how closely they stood together, the way their arms brushed against one another. And when he nodded it was with a knowing look. He turned on his heel and strode back toward camp.

"Cat's out of the bag now," Maxwell said.

"Like it wasn't before." Bull shrugged. "No one's going to say shit." And if they tried, he would put them in their place right away.

"I know."

"But…" Bull prompted, knowing there was something else on his mind. Maxwell might be a decent talker, but he was bad at hiding his feelings.

"What if they think I shouldn't… That I should focus on the war? That… I don't know, that you're a distraction or that maybe I…" He frowned, voice dropping almost inaudibly. "That I don't deserve to be happy because of what happened?"

"Fuck 'em."

Maxwell looked up, surprised.

"Not, y'know, literally," Bull clarified. "None of us saw it coming. Hindsight's fine and all that but _no one_ saw what was happening. Not even me," he added, taking that blow to his pride. "We screwed up, sure. But how long are you going to keep punishing yourself for this?"

"I don't know," Maxwell admitted.

Bull grabbed him by the front of his tunic, pulled him up while leaning down, and kissed him hard. Maxwell struggled for only a moment before he relaxed, opening his mouth and letting Bull take the lead. He groaned softly, gripping Bull's wrists briefly before reaching up to wraps his arms around his neck. Bull slid a hand down his back, holding Maxwell's smaller body against his own.

_No room for doubt,_ he thought, as he kissed him almost savagely. He straightened, taking Maxwell with him, feet leaving the ground. Maxwell clung to him, and when Bull finally released him, he was left panting, lips slightly swollen. Bull chuckled at the wide-eyed expression on his face, and kissed him more softly this time before setting him down.

"Maybe you should figure it out," Bull said, reaching down to fondly pat his backside.

The kiss had the effect that Bull was hoping for, Maxwell slightly dazed and more than a bit pleased. He smiled and nodded. "I will. You're right. Nothing good can come from dwelling on it. Besides, we have a battle to plan," he finished, somewhat distastefully.

"I'll make sure you don't cut yourself with your sword."

"Or anyone else," Maxwell added, pulling him out of the meadow.

"Or anyone else," Bull agreed, following him.


	10. Chapter 10

"No, he wasn't pleased."

"Is he ever?"

Lucanus stopped just outside Servis's office door, reports in hand. Normally he wouldn't have walked right into the man's estate, but he'd heard some disturbing news out of Ferelden and wanted it confirmed. Being higher up in the ranks of the Venatori, he was privy to information that others wouldn't be, but Servis always seemed to know things before him. It was irritating, as the entire organization seemed to be a joke or a passing amusement to Servis, instead of a glorious new regime. And as Lucanus stormed out of his office the last time he saw him, he would have to swallow his pride on this one. But he never expected Servis to have a visitor. He frowned as he listened, trying to determine who the other voice in the room was.

"It's just a country. Once we have the Well, we'll be unstoppable."

Deep, gravelly, tired. Lucanus thought he recognized it.

"Chiron, if you're going to lurk could you at least tell Silvius to bring us another bottle of Antivan Red?" Servis called airily. "We're almost out."

Lucanus stepped into the doorway, trying not to glare at him. The man whose voice he was trying to place glanced back at him, dark brown hair slicked back, a faint, reddish glow about his eyes. His very aura unsettled Lucanus, and he fought the instinct to throw a fireball into the man's face.

"Ah there you are," Servis said in his silky tone. He was leaning forward in his chair, elbows resting on the table, holding a silver amulet. "I don't believe you've ever met General Samson."

Samson nodded to Lucanus, who returned it tightly.

"Did you have something?" Servis asked, nodding to the reports. He dropped the amulet to his desk.

Lucanus crossed the room and handed the folders to him. He supposed he should have been grateful that Servis didn't mention their last meeting in front of Samson. If Samson wasn't there, however, he knew Servis would gloat about Lucanus coming back. It irritated him further, and he knew he would have to start thinking about how to push Servis out. Perhaps with the new connections he made through the Venatori and his dinner parties. "It's about Ferelden, actually. The country the Red Templars were supposed to hold."

Samson's vague smile disappeared at once.

"You'll have to forgive Lucanus," Servis said, taking the reports and flipping through them. "Raised by nugs."

Lucanus scowled. So what if he insulted a Red Templar? They were just the muscle. Once Thedas saw the true power of the Venatori, the might of the Elder One, they wouldn't need anything more than simple police. The Red Templars were going to be on their way out soon, and the Venatori would reign supreme, as Corypheus had always planned it.

Samson let out a small huff of laughter. "Dealing with you Venatori is never dull."

"As you were saying, General," Servis pressed. "This Well… where is it, exactly?" He pushed the reports aside and gestured Lucanus into a seat.

Lucanus did not appreciate being treated second to this Red Templar… abomination… thing. Even if he was a general in Corypheus's army, his Venatori were more important than some random ex-templar. And here was Servis, mingling with one.

Samson cleared his throat. "Reports from the Arbor Wilds. I pulled my men out of Ferelden and they're marching west as fast as they can. I came here to talk to Corypheus. He's sending contingents of Wardens and told me to recruit whoever I wanted from his Venatori."

"That's ridiculous!" Lucanus said, interrupting. He hadn't taken a seat, and turned to look fully at Samson, ignoring the way that red aura made him feel. "The Red Templars have no jurisdiction over the Venatori!"

"I believe that's actually the opposite of what Samson just said." Servis picked up the amulet again, turning it in his fingers. "The Arbor Wilds. Remote and out of the way. No wonder the elves built a temple there. I would offer my services…"

"No," Samson said, and it was clearly what Servis wanted to hear. "You got your own to worry about. But what about this Pavus you were telling me about?"

"Dorian is _my_ responsibility," Lucanus cut in again. "Besides, I have a project I've been wanting to-"

"The sooner Dorian Pavus is out of Tevinter, the better." Servis looked at Lucanus, eyes levelled. "You've lost control of him. He dismissed his spirit companion-"

"How do you know that?"

"-and," Servis continued, ignoring the interruption, "he has every chance of running off back to the Inquisition. If they'll even have him. But we're taking precautions against infiltration here. And while we don't believe your error caused the downfall in Ferelden, you had better be prepared to answer for any problems the spirit might cause."

"You cannot just take him from me!" Lucanus insisted. "I've worked too hard and too long-"

Samson half-rose from his chair. "You two obviously have a lot to work out-"

Servis waved him back down. "There is nothing to work out." He paused, looking coolly at Lucanus. "Since you insist that Dorian is your project, why not go with him? Samson, I hope I'm not being presumptive."

Lucanus bit the inside of his cheek. He was being treated as an inferior, despite everything. How hard he worked, how far he came over the last year. "You have no authority, Servis."

"But you can certainly see it would be a good idea. Besides," Servis said, sitting back in his chair, "what plans did you have for him?"

"We are going to Qarinus to speak with his father directly." Lucanus still hadn't received a letter from Halward Pavus. "It was time he made a decision on whether to join us. And Dorian will be our bargaining chip."

Servis scoffed, tucking the amulet into his pocket. "Crude and ineffective. Go with Samson, if the General will have you. You'll be of more use out of the country and Dorian's abilities will vastly aid the templars. After all, you've no mages other than the Grey Wardens, correct?"

Samson nodded. "Aye, that's right. My men are loyal and will follow me to death. But the Wardens…"

"They follow their own commander and may be difficult to control, considering their thrall," Servis acknowledged. "Dorian will follow your orders. And if he doesn't, Lucanus will see to it, since Dorian is so fond of him."

It was a challenge. Servis knew that his grip on Dorian was slipping. To decline now would be to show that weakness. To acknowledge that he needed Halward Pavus's help to get Dorian back under his thumb. But to agree in taking him out of the country, that would show a weakness as well, albeit disguised as a confidence. Servis was simultaneously giving him an opportunity and deriding his skills. He _hated_ him for that.

"So do we have the support of the Venatori?" Samson asked, looking from Servis to Lucanus.

Lucanus clenched his jaw, then took a breath before responding. "Yes, General. Of course you do. When do we march?"

"Tomorrow morning. Most of my men are already in Orlais. We'll move through the capital and gather the Grey Wardens that Erimond can spare, rest, then move on."

"Surely it will take more than a few days to reach the Arbor Wilds," Lucanus said.

Samson exchanged a look with Servis, then grinned. He stood, laughing, and slapped Lucanus on the shoulder as he left. Lucanus winced, rubbing the spot, and looked at Servis.

"General Samson seems fond of you."

Lucanus glared. "What's so funny?"

"From the reports as I understand it, Red Templars are tireless. The lyrium sustains them. A blessing and a curse, I'd say. Make sure you wear your good sturdy travelling shoes."

"...Maker take you, you bastard," Lucanus spat, and stood, leaving as quickly as he could. It was a victory in Servis's favor, and he swore he would get one up on him. Soon. After he returned from the Arbor Wilds.

Of course now he had to find Dorian and do his own research. He had no idea what this 'Well' was or why it was in the dense forests of the Arbor Wilds. Whatever it was, Corypheus wanted it, and Lucanus would not disappoint him. Perhaps, he thought, working with General Samson would bring him the glory he was looking for. Then he would definitely have one over on Servis.

Hopeful for what was surely to come, he went to deliver the orders to Dorian.

-

The cart rocked far too much to hope for a decent sleep. However, it was far better than walking or taking a horse. The light rain tatted against the canvas rooftop, and Dorian tossed and turned on the thin pallet. At the very least it wasn't cold, despite how far south they were already. He wasn't used to moving at such a grueling pace. Nor, it seemed, was Lucanus, who slept next to him. He could tell that Lucanus was unnerved, being surrounded by so many Red Templars. General Samson led the troops, all of them twisted and wrong. They were like abominations but much, much worse. Where normal lyrium had a pleasant smell and a cool taste, Dorian could tell that the red version was completely opposite, and much more powerful.

He said his goodbyes to Cole, urging him to go off to find the Inquisition. Cole understood, or so Dorian hoped he did. He didn't want to send him away, the only friend he had now in the world. But whatever they were planning to do with him, wherever he was going to end up, he didn't want Cole getting hurt because of him. He'd already hurt too many people with his actions. And he wasn't sure there was a way to fix any of it. But this? He saw the world, saw what was happening. And even if the Inquisition wanted to take Tevinter and strip it from its culture – a fact that Dorian doubted more and more – it would almost be better than what was occurring now.

He could kill Lucanus right now as he slept. Dorian saw him through the darkness, just a few inches away, asleep and unaware. He could use magic or just take a knife to his belly or throat. Would the Red Templars even care? A fight broke out once already between them and while Samson stopped it, one of the templars lost an arm. Dorian was called on to cauterize it, which he did. Then the trek continued as if nothing happened. Perhaps they would just toss Lucanus's body aside in the road. Or maybe the Red Templars would eat him. They seemed the type to consume flesh.

_Ugh._

Rolling to his other side, he pulled the thin blanket up over his shoulder. From the whispers among the troops, Dorian learned that Ferelden had fallen. Or they abandoned it. It wasn't clear if it was a victory for the Inquisition or if the Red Templars simply left them to it. Why would they give up one of their strongholds? Why would they allow the Inquisition just to come in and take back a very important piece of land? Unless this Well was so powerful that they didn't need Ferelden. If the Well could give them an even grander victory or a way to secure all of Thedas, not just the bits they've already captured? They could destroy what was left of the Inquisition. They could destroy the Inquisitor.

Guilt twisted in Dorian's stomach like a hot knife and he curled inward, trying not to think of Maxwell. He hadn't loved him. He hadn't even really liked him all that much. He was attractive and smart, but ultimately dull. Still, he didn't deserve what happened to him. What Dorian did to him. But didn't Lucanus have a point? Didn't Servis? Tevinter was going to become glorious now under Corypheus's rule. But this wasn't what Alexius would have wanted. Not at all. Yes, he'd joined the Venatori, but then he defected. He just wanted Felix to survive. Dorian knew that. He never should've left him. If he never left, then Alexius never would have traveled south, lured by false promises. And his father would never have tried to resort to blood magic to try to change him. And now… he was likely going to his death. He would die without telling his father… telling him what? That he loved him. That despite it all, he still cared about him.

A hand touched his shoulder and Dorian fought to keep from shuddering or pulling away. He tried to relax as Lucanus stroked his arm and his back, fingers running up through his hair. Steeling himself, he turned over to look at him.

"You should sleep. They aren't going to stop," Lucanus muttered. "Madmen."

"Why help if they're so mad?" Dorian asked, and was prepared for the punishment, wincing, waiting for the blow that never fell. Lucanus had conditioned him so thoroughly that he was prepared to take a hit for any kind of backtalk.

"This is the next step in taking power. Ambition, Dorian. We assist here, we rise through the ranks of the Venatori. The Elder One will exalt us."

"Us?" Dorian said with a bitter laugh. "You do this for yourself."

A sudden jolt of electricity spread through his nerves, and while it lasted only a few seconds, it left him in pain for a long time after. He curled in on himself again, gasping for breath.

"Don't forget yourself," Lucanus said. "I won't be so merciful next time. Go to sleep."

With concentrated effort, Dorian turned over again, facing away from Lucanus. He inched as far away from him as he could possibly go, against the wall of the cart, and pulled the blanket up and over his head. Everything hurt and he forced a bit of magic through his muscles, trying to ease the ache while he massaged his chest. There would be no sleep. Not when he needed to keep an eye on Lucanus in case he tried to kill him. For whatever reason he thought Dorian was still useful, but what happened when that stopped being the case? Then it would be he, Dorian, who was killed and flung out the side of the cart, left for the buzzards on the side of the road.

And with that thought in mind, Dorian knew there would be no sleep.

-

The days wore on, Dorian spending most of it in the back of the cart, drifting in and out of consciousness. The Red Templars stopped in Orlais and he was allowed a bed and one glorious night of decent sleep. Then they were off again on the road, this time surrounded by Grey Wardens and their demons. Not that demons particularly bothered Dorian, but he was extremely unused to being near them in this capacity. Spirits and wisps, most of them formless and harmless were fine. But these were fully formed demons of rage and desire. While he had no love for being cooped up in the cart, he found it preferable to being caught up in the strange feelings the demons impressed upon him.

He did get out to stretch his legs when they left the city of Val Firmin, the last civilized part of their trip until they reached the Wilds. General Samson walked the ranks, shouting words of encouragement, laughing with his troops. Dorian thought it all very theatrical at the same time barbaric. He'd attended a handful of Venatori rallies, members of note standing in front of the crowds and going on about the grace and glory of the Elder One, the superiority of Tevinter, and heard the impassioned cries. He'd also seen two public beheadings when Chantry members spoke out against Corypheus being a god, that he was an affront to the Maker. He listened to the speeches about the Old Gods and how Tevinter used worship them, setting them apart from the barbarians.

It was all very patriotic. But it was also a load of rubbish. Easy to get sucked into it. But Dorian had seen both sides. He'd experienced the ugliness. He knew what the Inquisition was. And he was, and always would be, an Andrastian. He wondered if the Maker was listening now, or if He didn't care for traitors. After all, Maferath had turned traitor. Would he be remembered in history as he was? 'Dorian the Betrayer' had a terrible ring to it. Dorian the Spy? Dorian the Double-Crosser?

"The Deceiver," he whispered.

No one heard him, thankfully. He continued to keep his head down as they walked and contemplated his end. For surely after this, Lucanus would have no more use for him.


	11. Chapter 11

The victory at Redcliffe was a huge blow to Corypheus. Though he'd largely stayed out of the fighting, Maxwell closed four rifts and used the mark to suck at least a dozen demons back into the Fade. He wondered if this was how mages felt, the power that they could wield. It was dangerous, and in the wrong hands, deadly. But he knew now more than ever that he was doing the Maker's work. They had marched south tirelessly, meeting up with their small guerilla groups throughout the country, stopping in villages to reassure the citizens of Ferelden that the Inquisition remained, that they were safe now and no longer had to fear the Red Templars. Their army swelled and by the time they reached Redcliffe, it was little more than a slaughter of Corypheus's troops.

The remaining citizens of Redcliffe celebrated their victory, the entire town playing music and feasting. Inquisition soldiers patrolled the perimeter and Arl Teagan, until then a hostage in his own castle, invited them to stay with him. Maxwell allowed it of Cullen and the soldiers, but decided to stay in the village himself. He visited the chantry and listened to one of the Sisters recite the Chant, dozens of others piled in for the sermon. Though he would have liked Iron Bull there, sitting by his side in one of the pews, he knew how it important it was for him to catch up with his Chargers. They were drinking in the tavern now, and even behind the heavy doors of the chantry, they could hear the celebrations outside.

As the hour grew late, more left the chantry to seek other festivities, singing and dancing and feasting. Maxwell didn't blame them. But he felt more at peace here than he would have in joining the merriment. When the Sister stepped down, Maxwell approached to thank her for her words, and they said goodnight. He knelt in front of the statue of Andraste, hands folded, feeling a quiet elation spread through him. With the aid of Kirkwall and Ostwick they'd recaptured the northern cities as planned. Denerim was taken, King Alistair in his rightful place, and Redcliffe was now in their hands. All of Ferelden pledged itself to the Inquisition. Leliana reported that Grand Duke Gaspard merely awaited their orders to move on Orlais, though admittedly no one had a solution yet for the demon army.

"The Maker will provide," Maxwell whispered.

The chantry doors opened behind him, the last of the flock leaving to find their beds or the arms of their lovers. He moved to a sitting position, feeling exhausted despite his excitement. Footsteps approached and he looked up to welcome whoever was seeking contemplation in the Maker's light, and a different sort of elation filled him when he recognized Bull's impressive silhouette.

"You're missing a party, kadan."

Maxwell smiled and shook his head. "Let them enjoy it. No one wants the Herald of Andraste around to remind them of their piety. They need alcohol and good food and dancing."

"And sex," Bull added, sitting down next to him. His shoulder was wrapped in a bandage and he sustained a few other cuts and bruises, but nothing too substantial.

"I suspect there will be a lot of that tonight, yes," Maxwell said, laughing lightly. "They've had precious little to celebrate for more than a year. Let them have it without me hanging around."

"Cullen said pretty much the same thing before he went to the castle." Bull handed Maxwell his cup, half-full of ale.

"You know I don't really drink."

"It's barely alcoholic," Bull urged.

"For you, maybe," Maxwell said, taking it. He sniffed, recoiled, but sipped, and gagged on the taste. "Maker, that's foul!"

Bull laughed and took it back, draining it in two deep swallows before putting the cup aside. "Never thought I'd find a teetotaler so amusing."

"Yes, well. I'm sure I'd make a hilarious drunk. When we win this war, I'll trust you to keep me from making an ass of myself."

"When," Bull agreed, taking him around the waist and pulling him close. "I like the way you talk."

"Are you drunk?" Maxwell asked, resting his hands on Bull's biceps.

"Nah. Had a few pints with the boys. Got to hear all the stories. Ate more than I probably should've." He inclined his head and kissed Maxwell soundly.

"Mm." Maxwell pulled back, touching Bull's shoulder and the bandage wrapped around it. "Patched up all right?"

"Yep. One of Anders' people took care of it. Handy to have around." He kissed him again.

Maxwell let it happen this time, his worry for Bull fading. He'd seen him fight so many times before, but after they declared this victory, it pained him to see the wounds he sustained. Bull could handle it though. If _he'd_ taken a blow like that, he wasn't sure he would've made it. Then again, he'd survived Haven by the grace of the Maker. Still, he didn't want to tempt fate. Bull's hand on his ass broke him from his thoughts and he pulled back again.

"Bull! Not in the chantry."

Bull glanced up at the statue of Andraste. "I don't think she minds."

Maxwell laughed and leaned up, kissing his cheek, then whispered, "We have a room in the tavern." He pulled the key from his pocket, given to him earlier in the day by the bartender. He'd already moved their things up, assuming that Bull would want to sleep in an actual bed tonight instead of a tent.

"Oh?" Bull asked, covering Maxwell's hand with his own, plucking the key from his fingers. "Don't tease me, kadan."

"I was rather hoping _you_ would tease _me_ ," Maxwell said, feeling the warmth rushing to his cheeks.

"Be careful what you ask for." Bull kissed him again, then lightly bit his lip before he stood and tugged Maxwell to his feet. With one last glance over his shoulder at the statue of Andraste, he led Maxwell out of the chantry.

-

Maxwell's back hit the closed door with a thud, and Bull was kissing him again. They barely made it up the stairs, Bull finding it hard to keep his hands to himself. The latch fell shut and they were alone together in a proper room for the first time since he kissed Bull. The implications about what might happen thrilled him as well as terrified him. Bull had his wrists in a tight grip, pinned above his head, and he could barely move, the bulk of Bull's body pressed against his own.

Bull broke the kiss, trailing little bites back to his ear. Maxwell tilted his head and groaned as a warm tongue flicked against his earlobe and down his neck. He was panting, eyes closed, feeling overwhelmed by the sensation. Lower, Bull slid a thigh between his legs and propped him up, removing any ability for Maxwell to gain friction against it.

"Bull," he whined. "Bull, I don't know… what I want…"

"So let me take care of it," Bull said, looking at him intently now. "Out there you're the Inquisitor. You make the hard decisions. In here, you're mine. I take care of you. You don't like what I do, or we go too fast or do too much, you say, 'katoh.' Say it now."

"Katoh," Maxwell repeated, the foreign word sounding strange on his lips. "All right."

"Yes?" Bull asked. "You agree?"

Maxwell swallowed and licked his lips, nervous, head swimming. "Yes. I want this. I want you."

The grin that spread over Bull's face put Maxwell immediately at ease, and he was picked up fully and easily tossed onto the bed. The leather harness around Bull's shoulder fell to the floor and he toed his boots off. Maxwell undid his belt and started unbuttoning his shirt, but Bull picked up the belt from the floor and stopped him.

"What are you-"

"Gonna tie you up," Bull said, taking Maxwell's wrists. He pinned them together and wrapped the belt around them tightly, then pushed his arms up and over his head. "Don't move."

Maxwell nodded, breathing quickly. Though they'd barely started, he was hard and aching. Living in camp wasn't conducive to long bouts of lovemaking, and they'd spent their time mostly kissing. Maxwell allowed Bull to stroke him off, but they hadn't progressed much further than that. And, as Bull pointed out, he tended to be loud.

Bull finished unbuttoning his shirt, pushing it up to bunch at his wrists and leaned down, his broad flat tongue licking one nipple, then the other. Maxwell squirmed a bit, then gasped when Bull straddled him. Strong, sure fingers worked the ties of his pants and pulled them down quickly, hindered by his own shoes. Bull kissed a trail down his stomach, ignored the tenting fabric of his smalls, and continued to kiss down his thigh to his knee, over his shin, until he was kneeling at the edge of the bed. Maxwell finally opened his eyes to look down, watching Bull rid of him off his boots, socks, and pants.

"You look terrified," Bull said, taking Maxwell's right leg in his hand. He bent his knee and gently started massaging his calf muscle. "The only thing you gotta worry about is waking our neighbors."

Maxwell couldn't help grinning embarrassedly. "I can't help it."

"I like it. You really don't know how sexy you are, do you? All creamy skin, unmarked. Waiting to be bruised like a peach."

"Bull, I…"

Bull chuckled and took Maxwell's other leg to give it the same treatment. "Fucking sexy you are. One day I'm going to sit back and let you ride my dick so I can watch you. Head thrown back, shouting my name as you impale yourself on me. Over and over and over."

Maxwell squirmed again and pulled at the belt tied around his wrists. "I can't… I don't know if I can… You're so big," he finished.

"Oh I know," Bull agreed. "But we'll loosen you up. Get in a lot of practice. Lot more victories to happen. Lot more celebratory sex."

"And you're going to… to f…"

"Fuck you?" Bull said, dropping his leg. He leaned over him, hands planted on either side of his chest. "Oh shit yeah." He leaned down and kissed him hard.

Maxwell whimpered, surrendering completely to Bull, lost in his kiss. When it ended, he was panting, and Bull turned him over to his stomach. Those thick fingers massaged his back, thumbs moving down his spine. If he was a cat, he would've purred, hips grinding against the mattress. Bull took hold of his smalls and carefully pulled them down and off, and he lay naked in the bed, completely exposed. He felt Bull's rough stubble against his back, warm kisses, a slick, hot tongue against his skin. Hands cupped his ass, and he glanced back over his shoulder. Bull looked up at him, smirking.

"What are you doing?" Maxwell asked, curious.

Bull laid a delicate kiss to one of his cheeks, then nudged him up to his knees. No longer able to see, Maxwell waited and inhaled sharply when Bull spread his cheeks gently, licking up his cleft. The idea of doing such a thing barely registered to him, so new he was to all of this. He had a brief thought of how unhygienic it was before any thoughts other than how bloody _good_ it felt fled his mind. He buried his face the pillow, fingers clawing at the sheets as Bull's tongue worked against his hole. He didn't know whether to scramble forward or push back against his face. Then Bull's mouth moved and it was all moist heat around his sac. He might have screamed into the pillow when Bull sucked gently on one side, then the other, and he was aching and hard, and just wanted to come.

"Bull," he panted, when he felt the warmth leave briefly. "Bull, I can't."

Rustling of fabric, and Maxwell looked back, seeing Bull remove his own pants before leaning down to pull a familiar jar from his bag.

"I won't do anything I don't think you can handle," Bull promised, and leaned down to kiss him. "But I am going to make you scream my name more than once tonight."

"Oh, Maker," Maxwell moaned.

"His too," Bull added. "I won't get jealous." Before getting back onto the bed, he slapped Maxwell's ass.

Maxwell jerked his hips. "Ah! Don't!"

"Delicate," Bull said, squeezing the pink flesh, massaging apologetically. "We'll work up to that."

Maxwell wasn't so sure about that, not knowing how someone could enjoy pain with their pleasure. Though the sting that came after wasn't at all unpleasant. He felt Bull's finger coated in the oily lotion run down his cleft, stopping at his hole. He took a breath and prepared himself for it.

"Easy," Bull muttered, lips close to ear suddenly. "I won't ever hurt you, kadan. I promise."

Maxwell nodded vigorously. "I know. I-I trust you." He tried to relax, and felt the tip of Bull's finger press inside him. He twisted the sheets and bit the pillow, waiting, muscles tense. He trusted Bull to be gentle, not to hurt him. But memories of his first time, of being on his knees, of Dorian came to his mind, and he felt the guilt replacing the heat that pooled in his stomach.

Then the finger was gone, and the belt around his wrists loosened suddenly. Bull tossed it and his shirt aside. 

Maxwell opened his eyes. "Bull, what?"

"Roll over. On your back."

Maxwell did as he was told, looking up at Bull's soft, concerned expression. "What… I'm sorry, did I…"

Bull's voice was soft and gentle when he spoke. "Why didn't you say it?"

"I didn't want to…" Had he screwed up? He wanted Bull to enjoy himself, to do what they'd been talking about doing for weeks now.

"He took you on your knees, didn't he?"

Maxwell frowned, feeling the guilt blossoming in his chest, and then inexplicably, tears in his eyes. He hadn't wanted to think of Dorian, of their first time together and everything else. He wanted to do this for Bull, to make him happy, and while he enjoyed it, he couldn't stop thinking about his first time with Dorian. It must've showed in his body language. Body language that Bull apparently knew very well how to read. He nodded, and pressed the heels of his palms against them, to keep himself from crying. "I'm sorry, I…"

Bull wiped his hand on the sheets, then carefully pulled Maxwell's wrists apart, away from his face, and kissed him tenderly. "We'll work up to it. Or not at all."

"How can you… don't you want me?" What if Bull saw him as ruined?

"Fuck yeah I do," Bull said at once, and kissed his forehead. "But not if it means hurting you." He gently brushed Maxwell's tears away with his thumb, then kissed him, settling over top of him carefully.

"Mm. I like… I like that," Maxwell said, pressing up with his hips, half-hard cock rubbing against Bull's stomach.

"Yeah?" Bull asked. He slid up a little, balancing on an elbow. "It's whatever you want tonight. Anything you want. Told you I would take care of you."

Maxwell hesitated, then reached down, fingers brushing the head of Bull's cock. He smiled when Bull's lips parted, warm breath coming in a puff across his cheek. He turned his head for a kiss. The angle was a little awkward, Bull being so much taller and bigger than him, but Maxwell spread his legs and thrust up, his cock rubbing against Bull's. He felt safe and warm underneath him, and wanted more.

"Your hand. Please, Bull."

Bull reached over to the nightstand and scooped a bit of the lotion onto his fingers. Maxwell closed his eyes, hands against Bull's chest, kissing softly while Bull oiled up both their cocks. He whined and pressed up as Bull pushed down, and soon they found a rhythm that worked for both of them. Maxwell's hand found Bull's, and he gasped with each thrust.

"Bull," he moaned, drawing his lover's name out. "Bull, Maker, that's so good. Go faster, please. Please, Bull, faster."

Bull sped up, thrusting against him, panting and sweating, their bodies generating heat and friction. Bull's hand stroked them both, and Maxwell clung to his shoulders.

"Bull!! Maker, yes! Yes, more!"

Bull growled close to his ear, and Maxwell knew it wasn't enough, not yet. He wanted more too. Pushing up on Bull's chest, he got him to lean up. Then, carefully he drew his knees to his chest, hands hooked around his thighs. Bull smirked, pressing him back, spreading his legs, and thrust his cock to slide against Maxwell's again.

"One day," Bull promised, a little breathless as he started to thrust again.

"Inside me," Maxwell murmured against his lips.

"Fuck yes," Bull whispered, kissing him. "You gonna scream my name again?" He kissed his cheek, then nudged his head aside, biting hard on his neck.

Maxwell keened, trying to thrust up against him, whining when Bull pinned him down. He couldn't answer, Bull's hot, thick cock sliding against his own. He begged, not hearing the words that came tumbling out of his mouth, prayers to the Maker, pleading with Bull. He shut his eyes tightly, feeling that familiar heat in his belly, the _need_ to finish. And suddenly he was coming, a rush of pleasure through his body, and screamed Bull's name. He shuddered, shaking with the force of his orgasm. Bull moved faster atop him and Maxwell, though quite suddenly tired and boneless, released his legs and reached down to grip Bull's cock in both hands. Slick with lotion and come, Maxwell's hands created a tight channel for Bull to thrust into. Bull propped himself up, hands splayed on the mattress, and pumped his hips sharp and fast.

It only took a few more thrusts before Bull growled, Maxwell feeling the warm seed hit his belly. Legs sore, fingers aching, Maxwell slumped against the mattress, tired and sated. Bull gripped his hair and he gasped, the intense kiss catching him by surprise, tongue thrusting into his mouth. He tried to kiss back but it was sloppy, but Bull didn't seem to care. It ended, soft and tender, and Maxwell smiled up at him.

"Fucking gorgeous, you are," Bull murmured.

"Mm-mm," Maxwell said. "You."

Bull laughed. "Yeah?"

Maxwell nodded. "All your beautiful scars. Muscles. The way you kiss." He reached up, fingers moving to the tie of his eyepatch, and Bull allowed him to remove it. Maxwell watched it fall away and set the patch aside. It wasn't the first time he saw him without it, remembering the story Krem told about how he lost his eye. "You're so brave, Bull."

"Gonna make a guy blush."

It was Maxwell's turn to laugh. "I don't think anyone could make you blush."

"You could always keep trying," Bull said, and slid off him.

Maxwell missed the heat, but knew he must look a mess. He glanced down at himself as Bull fetched a wet cloth. His own semen mixed with Bull's on his stomach, and there were red marks all down his body that he knew would turn to bruises. He also knew there would be quite a few on his neck, and still got a bit of a wicked thrill when Cullen's eyes flicked to them. Hawke mentioned it once in passing and Anders offered to heal them. But Maxwell found himself becoming more and more proud of them. The guilt from Dorian's betrayal eased off his conscience with each passing day. And now with their victories all across Ferelden, he finally felt like he deserved the happiness Bull gave him.

He couldn't help the little noises he made when Bull cleaned him off, relaxing once more as Bull took care of him. Bull built the fire up and snuffed out the candles in the chandelier before climbing back into bed with him. Maxwell shivered and pulled the blanket up over both of them, cuddling close.

"My brothers used to make fun of the girls who cuddled up after sex," Maxwell said, feeling a little self-conscious.

"What? They got something against gorgeous women pressed against them?" Bull scoffed and wrapped an arm around him. "Cuddling doesn't make you a girl, no more than being the bottom does. You worried about that?"

"...A bit."

"You have so much to learn about sex." Bull yawned, tired from the long day of marching and fighting and celebrating. "Got so much to teach you."

Maxwell laughed, embarrassment waning, and kissed Bull's shoulder. "Tomorrow we talk to Cullen about Orlais." He smiled against Bull's skin. "We're going to do it, Bull. We're going to win."

"I know we are, kadan."

The glow of sex and victory settled warmly in his chest, and Maxwell fell asleep.


	12. Chapter 12

They never expected resistance at the temple. If they had, Dorian thought they would have come prepared for it. He stayed above the fighting, on the walls as he worked hard to keep barriers and shields up, paralysis glyphs on the ground to halt their attackers. Red Templars marched forward in a line, their shields and swords knocking down the strange elven beings. Vicious little shadows scurried through the underbrush, hacking at legs and leaping up to stab the elves in the back. The lyrium shards cut through their odd armor with ease. And when the first battle was over, Dorian knelt to examine them.

"Don't bother wasting any tears on this lot," Samson said, standing over him. He spat on the ground, then toed over the body. "They'd have killed you just as fast." He turned away and ordered his men to march on.

Dorian frowned, pushing back the hood of the elf, looking into his blank, staring eyes. Dalish tattoos covered his face, looking like a tree with many branches, and Dorian traced one of the lines. Definitely elves. But what were elves doing out here? They looked different from the elves he knew, the slaves he saw, and the ones he met in the Inquisition. Were they even Dalish? He wondered. But while the Dalish were rumored to be fierce warriors, there were also women and children, storytellers and woodcutters. These elves were all trained killers, their armor too rich and too old for Dalish elves.

"Dorian."

He stood at once and followed Lucanus like an obedient puppy, down crumbling stone steps and across a bridge with curious golden bricks. The temple was vast and ancient, and there was a magic there that was begging not to be disturbed. And yet here they were, barreling through, tromping over every little piece of history. Just like they did so many centuries ago, crushing the ancient elves under their boots. He wondered if Cole's compassionate nature had worn on him that he felt this way. But no, it was just morality, wasn't it? Sure it felt good to be the conqueror. But what about the lives you destroyed in the meantime?

Before he could contemplate further, they found themselves in a large chamber that nature threatened to reclaim, a stairway leading up toward a set of doors. A dais and two pillars surrounded by curious elven tiles stood in the middle. Dorian wanted to inspect them but he was herded up the stairs. With two dozen Red Templars, six Grey Wardens and their demon thralls, and Lucanus, there was no way he could stop to look at anything. All this history around them and they were simply ignoring it. 

_Uncultured, arrogant swine._

The next room was much the same as the first, though it was flat and several doors led off in different directions. Samson gestured to his men. Explosives were brought, and Dorian winced, turning away with Lucanus as they blew a hole to get to their destination. So much culture, so much they could learn, and they destroyed it to get to the power that lay beyond. Dorian wondered if it was too much to hope for one of the elves to shoot an arrow into his chest now.

_Stop being so dramatic,_ he chided himself. _You are resourceful. You can get out of this if you really wanted to. You can survive. You know how._

He barely recognized the voice in his head, urging himself on. His confidence had been shattered, lost because of Lucanus. Lucanus, who walked with him, who made him jump into the pit first and followed, sneering at everything around him. Before his capture, he was strong and confident. A little shaken by what he went through with his father, but he had a goal after seeking out the Inquisition. That goal was crushed and tossed aside along with his pride and dignity. But not all of it was shredded. And not all of it was gone. He couldn't ever fix what happened, and he knew he couldn't make amends for what he did, but he could try.

Dorian made the decision then. If he was going to die, he would see Lucanus dead first. There was no reason not to fight now. Sure the Red Templars would take him, but he would die before he'd join them _or_ the Venatori. He would slit his own throat if he had to. Lucanus would kill him anyway, or put him through another round of torture. Dorian refused to go through that again. Feeling more confident now, he followed the others, staff in hand.

They reached what looked like a vestibule, gorgeous mosaics set into the high walls. But it was deep within the temple itself. The hall was lined with statues of elven gods holding bowls of fire, the same golden brick on the floor. A large balcony was set at the top of the hall and a lone figure paced back and forth, arms crossed.

"Stand down," Samson ordered him. "And we won't kill you."

The figure said something in a tongue Dorian couldn't understand, and suddenly the hall filled with smoke, arrows unleashed at once. One of them caught a templar in the throat, dropping him immediately. Dorian fell too, not because he was hit but because he didn't _want_ to be hit. He crawled away very slowly through the smoke toward one of the large statues and tucked himself behind it, heart pounding wildly. This was it. This was his chance. But what could he do? He couldn't signal to the elves that he wanted to be on their side, that he didn't want to hurt them. They would simply kill him. Or Lucanus would.

Then, seeing the body of another templar fall, he realized what he needed to do. Shielded by the statue, he stood up and began to cast. Dark magic, though not blood magic, this branch rarely was practiced outside of Nevarra. Holding an interest for Nevarran culture at an early age, he studied the Mortalitasi and their methods. However, it wasn't very fashionable to call yourself a necromancer outside of Nevarra, so Dorian focused on his inferno spells, having a natural affinity for fire. But his original interests never waned. He called upon that power now, pulling spirits across the Fade to inhabit the bodies of the fallen templars. Pushing more mana into the spell, he forced them to fight against their comrades.

Perhaps it was the odd purple aura around them, or maybe the elves simply caught on quickly to the spell, but they avoided the reanimated corpses. It took the Red Templars a bit longer to figure things out, and the Grey Wardens, thinking the templars were on their side, didn't see the corpses until it was too late. Blood splattered the golden floor, and Samson was shouting over the sounds of screaming, of metal crunching against metal. Dorian saw him flee with a few of his men through a side door, but let him go. It was Lucanus he wanted.

The smoke thinned further, and he saw him locked in combat with an elf, staff against two daggers. A blast of magic sent the elf flying through the air, landing with a sickening crunch against one of the statues, neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Dorian didn't hesitate, raising the corpse at once. The hall grew quieter now, the elves giving chase to the remaining templars. Dorian knew they were heading toward the Well. If he wanted to stop Samson, he had precious little time. He would likely die in the fight, Samson much more powerful than himself, at least physically. He could nullify Dorian's magic, the element of surprise gone now. Dorian barely stood half a chance.

But as much as he wished he could play the hero, he knew heroes didn't murder. He could let Lucanus go. Dorian continued to raise corpses around him, a dozen reanimated soldiers surrounding him. Lucanus knelt in his blood-covered and torn robes, half-dead already. He glared at Dorian, and in that disdainful look, Dorian saw himself. Strung up. Beaten. Tortured. Thrown in a cell with rats. Made to feel less than he was. Used as a tool. Made to think that his friends, people he respected and who once had respect for him, were against him. And he believed it all. Because this man held a power over him. He wouldn't anymore. And he knew he couldn't be the hero.

"Do it then," Lucanus hissed. Then laughed as Dorian hesitated. "You're nothing but a coward."

Dorian felt a white hot surge of rage. He gathered his mana and pushed it forward into the spell controlling the corpses. Then suddenly the magic fizzled and the corpses dropped to the ground all in a heap. Dorian turned around, confused. A Red Templar stood with his hand out, another wave of energy flying from his palm, knocking Dorian from his feet onto a fallen corpse. Pain like nothing he'd ever felt blossomed from somewhere around his middle. He looked down and saw a steel blade protruding from his stomach. It didn't make sense. He wasn't supposed to die like this. He needed to kill Lucanus, to get that revenge.

"Hah. Well done," Lucanus rasped, and got to his feet.

Everything felt cold, his body slowly going into shock from the agony he felt, his vision starting to tunnel as the blood seeped from the wound. Dorian tried to reach down to pull it free, but his arms wouldn't listen. Lucanus laughed, staggering forward on his staff and looked down at Dorian. He sneered, opened his mouth to speak, and jerked forward, then again. Mouth in a wide 'O', eyes confused and staring, he fell, landing hard next to Dorian. Two arrows stuck into his back, and he lay unmoving. Two of the strange elves approached Dorian, talking in their weird language. It was the last thing he remembered before he passed out.

-

He heard strange whispers somewhere above him. Lyrical voices echoed through the room and he woke slowly, his mouth feeling like cotton. A strong hand slipped under his head, inclining it, and he tasted something cool and sweet against his lips. The residual aches faded with each swallow, and despite feeling better, he just wanted to go back to sleep. Instead, he opened his eyes and with some help, he slowly sat up. Soft pillows propped him up and finally an elf came into focus. 

"While I'm sometimes used to waking up disoriented," he started, rubbing an eye, trying to make sense of it all. "Where am I?" He looked around, taking note first of the very comfortable four-poster bed in which he was resting. The room was small but the walls, shimmering silver and white with stark onyx trim, stretched high, opening to the afternoon sky. Trees bowed low, golden leaves fluttering into the room, stopped only by the sheer white canopy above the bed. He looked down at himself, naked to the waist, a ropy scar on his stomach.

"Ma ghilas," the elf ordered, and two soldiers standing at the doorway to the room left silently.

The elf was tall, taller than any elf Dorian had ever seen. The vallaslin on his face looked like a tree, branches winding up the bare sides of his head. Dorian recognized it as the same markings on the others. Was that normal for so many to have the same type? His armor was similar as well, though a different color, silver, gold and copper. There was an odd etherealness to him, something that both put Dorian at ease and frightened him just a little.

"I am called Abelas," he said. Though his voice was smooth, the trade tongue was obviously not his first language, nor one he likely spoke often.

"Dorian." After all, there was nothing to gain by being rude, and lost as he was here in the Wilds, there was little hope of getting home. "You saved my life?" He touched the scar on his stomach, expecting pain, but there was none.

"We were able to bring you back from the brink."

"…Thank you. But why?" It would have been fitting had he died with the others. The others. "Who survived? Did Samson-"

Abelas held up a hand for silence, scrutinizing Dorian with his eerie yellow eyes. "We have killed all other shemlen who remained in the Temple of Mythal."

"That's what this place is?" Dorian knew vaguely of the elven gods. Mythal was supposed to have been a mother figure, he thought.

"Indeed." Abelas sat on the bed, never looking away, never blinking. "You arrived with the ones who've disturbed our slumber. But you are not like them."

Dorian frowned and looked away first. "I was."

"Your spirit is different," Abelas said, pressing his fingers to Dorian's chest. A whitish energy pulsed from his fingertips, and he pulled away.

"I'm not sure about that. But… who are you? Descendants of the Dalish?"

"We are Sentinels, tasked with standing against those who trespass on sacred ground. We wake only to fight, to preserve this place. And our numbers diminish with each invasion. Each time we wake, we find the world more foreign than before."

Dorian felt his head swim with even more questions. "You're elves… from ancient times?"

Abelas nodded. "That is correct."

"Then…" Dorian frowned. "Then it was my people who destroyed yours."

"Unlikely. Unless you are descended from the elvhen."

"But, the Tevinter Imperium-"

"We warred with ourselves," Abelas said, his voice full of regret. "And when we finally closed our doors, the shemlen took what was left behind."

He felt faint. If what Abelas was saying was true – and he had no reason to lie – then it wasn't Tevinter who conquered the elves. His homeland, the 'glory' that Corypheus wanted to restore, wasn't glory at all. It was all a farce. He wasn't sure if this knowledge made him feel better or worse.

"I don't even know what we were here for. Collecting more things that were left behind, I expect," Dorian said bitterly.

"They sought the vir'abelasan."

Dorian raised an eyebrow. "Forgive me, I…"

"The Well of Sorrows."

"Ah. Samson did mention a well. Is he-"

"None of the shemlen made it to the chamber. Because of you, we were able complete our duty once more. Ma serannas."

"Er. You're welcome." At least he hoped Abelas was thanking him. "What does it do? The well?"

"It is a path walked by those who toil in Mythal's favor. Beyond that, you need not know."

Dorian nodded. He would have like to know more, but it wasn't necessary. What was necessary was making sure that Corypheus never got it. And when Samson didn't report back, when Lucanus didn't return… "Others will come for it," he said, suddenly realizing. "He won't stop. The one who wants it. He'll come himself or he'll send others. Your people will die."

"We already are," Abelas said sadly. "Those who remain have you to thank for their lives. As a servant of Mythal, I am bound to protect the Well."

"You can't," Dorian insisted. "You think this was bad? An entire _army_ will come to take this from you. You can't stop it."

Abelas hung his head in silence a moment, contemplating. "No. We cannot. But we can destroy the thing they seek."

"Everything you've lived for and protected." Dorian winced. It hit too close to home for him.

"I would see it destroyed before letting it fall into shemlen hands."

Dorian couldn't argue that. There were many possibilities, but none made any sense to him. Even if Abelas were willing to share the knowledge of the Well with him – a shemlen as he put it – how could he trust himself to do the right thing? There was a chance that the Venatori could come for him, torture him for the information. Even if he tried to carry the knowledge to the Inquisition, they wouldn't listen to him. And nothing he could do now would make amends for what he did then. "Destroy it then. So no one can use its power for ill." He felt distinctly uncomfortable with Abelas's unblinking eyes on him. "What?"

"You do not ask its favor. You would not even argue it."

"A Tevinter scooping up the last remnants of power from an ancient elven goddess?" Dorian shook his head. "Perhaps… perhaps once I might have." For Lucanus. For the Elder One. He wasn't that person anymore. Couldn't be. Of course the fact remained that he had no idea who he was now, but he couldn't go back. "But not anymore."

Abelas continued to stare a moment longer, his keen eyes surveying Dorian. "Very well." He stood and walked toward a beautiful wardrobe made from rich, dark wood with golden accents and opened the door. He returned to Dorian with a set of black robes and laid them on the bed. "Most of your clothing was destroyed. We'll gift you these for your journey home."

"I don't… really have a home," Dorian admitted. "Once the Well is destroyed, will you stay here?"

"There are other places," Abelas said cryptically. "Dress. Then join me."

Dorian watched him leave then carefully got out of bed, wearing only his slim leather trousers he traveled in. Stretching, he touched the small of his back to inspect the scar from the other side. It felt as large and ugly as the one on his stomach. The part of him that was trained to be vain winced. _Stop it,_ he chided himself. _It's not as if anyone else is ever going to see it._ With that sobering thought, he started to dress, eager despite himself to see the Well of Sorrows Abelas spoke of.


	13. Chapter 13

The temple was breathtaking. Dorian followed the Sentinel guide through the gilded halls, stopping to examine the statues and mosaics. If he lingered too long, the guide tapped her staff on the floor and urged him with a word he didn't understand. The meaning, however, was clear and he hurried to catch up. He recognized the influence this culture had on his own, the architecture, the way statues were carved. Half the temple opened to the sky, and the other half had grand, vaulted ceilings. He doubted he would ever see anything as amazing as this again, and tried to take it all in.

They eventually reached a vast courtyard where Abelas waited. He dismissed the guide and gestured for Dorian to follow him. The ambient magic in the air grew thicker, like static electricity before a huge thunderstorm. Branches and leaves bent to Abelas's will, forming stairs up the side of a tall cliff, which plateaued, revealing a shallow, clear pool of water. On the other side stood a tall, gilded mirror that reflected the pool and the foliage surrounding them. Dorian frowned at his reflection, running his fingers through his mussed hair. Though the clothes he wore were silken and comfortable, he looked tired and run down.

_But not bad for a man who was heading toward his death not so long ago._

"For the aid that you've given, we'll return that favor. The eluvian will take you to one of its connecting brothers. A quick way to traverse the worlds in between," Abelas said, gesturing to the mirror.

Dorian frowned. "I don't really have anywhere to go," he admitted. He could return to Tevinter, state that Lucanus sent him back. He would need to seek out his father. _Or Servis._ No, he would never go back to him.

"Then we possess kindred spirits," Abelas said with a small smile. "Follow the path. You will find the exit."

The water swirled, as if a great wind suddenly kicked up, and then parted, leaving a path from the shore to the mirror. Dorian swallowed hard, nervous, but nodded. Abelas touched his shoulder, then squeezed before stepping back to watch him descend into the Well. He walked the dry path toward the mirror, the glass shimmering like the surface of the ocean.   
"Dorian."

Dorian looked back at Abelas, raising an eyebrow.

"May the Creators watch over you."

Dorian nodded, wanting to return the sentiment, but unable to. He saw Abelas smirk before waving him on. And, taking a breath, Dorian stepped through the mirror.

-

"Do you remember when we first came here?" Maxwell asked.

He stood on the battlements of Redcliffe Castle, looking out over Lake Calenhad. Bull was behind him, arms wrapped around his waist. It was a windy day, and they were enjoying a very rare moment of quiet, contemplating their next move. They needed to figure out how to stop the demon army, a task which seemed almost impossible. Several of their own were going through old Red Templar reports, trying to see if there was anything, any hint to their next step. Meanwhile, Gaspard was working on outskirt villages in Orlais, and recruited the elven woman Briala. Maxwell knew nothing about her aside from that she used to work with the late empress as a handmaiden and spy, and Leliana assured him that their goals were similar.

"Long time ago," Bull murmured against his ear. "You called that truce. The negotiations."

Maxwell leaned back against him and sighed. "I know we can only go forward, but even with all that we've accomplished, I feel like it's just not enough."

"It'll end." Bull slipped a hand under Maxwell's tunic.

"Feels nice," Maxwell whispered, as Bull trailed his fingers across his stomach.

He closed his eyes, gripping Bull's firm forearm, and let himself think about something other than the war. When this was over, he would remain at the helm of the Inquisition. It wasn't a title he wanted, but learned to accept. The Maker saw fit to bequeath him this power, and he would wield it for good. The Chantry would be rebuilt. There were talks about appointing a new Divine soon. But he would make sure the Inquisition had their say. Like the Inquisition of old, he would order his soldiers to stand down. To turn the Inquisition into a force that championed things like peace and prosperity, to work to make sure that every citizen of Thedas flourished, that would be their goal.

Bull's fingertips slid into the waistband of his trousers, and Maxwell was about to warn him about sex and public places when a shouted, "Inquisitor!" interrupted them.

Bull pulled away, muttering, "Every time."

Maxwell quickly fixed his clothing, feeling a slight heat rise in his face at having been caught in such an intimate position. "Commander?"

Cullen hadn't seemed to notice what was about to transpire. He looked rushed and irritated and even a little angry. "Our troops outside Redcliffe caught a spy in the camp."

"A spy?" Maxwell was confused. "How could a spy sneak in? We have a perimeter set up-"

"He came through the mirror. It's Dorian."

Maxwell's heart dropped into his stomach, his entire body rigid. The wave of nausea that hit him next took him by surprise, but he swallowed hard against it. Behind him, Bull laid a hand on his shoulder, and he nodded. "Take me to him," he said, his voice quiet, hard, and even.

He couldn't imagine what he looked like, the startled expression on Cullen's face as he answered with a terse, "Yes, Inquisitor," and turned on his heel.

Maxwell followed, Bull at his side.

-

"You gonna be all right?" Bull asked quietly.

Maxwell sat in Redcliffe Castle's dining room, waiting impatiently, knee jiggling nervously beneath the table. "Yes. No. Not sure. I'll let you know."

Bull laid a hand on his knee, squeezing it. "I'm here."

"I can't… I don't know what to say to him." He couldn't expect Bull to know the answers either. And Cullen? He wasn't sure. His commander's thoughts on the matter were likely closer to, 'lock him up and throw away the key.' And many others would insist he take Dorian's head. There was no doubt in his mind that Dorian needed to be punished, to atone for what he did. But while he'd passed judgment for smaller crimes, this was something unconscionable. Did Dorian feel guilty for what he did? Maxwell knew one thing: if he wanted to get to the bottom of things, he would need to speak with Dorian alone. But the question then was, would Bull and Cullen allow that?

The door opened and Cullen stepped through, not hiding the disgust in his expression. Two soldiers flanked a third man dressed in black, hands bound in front of him. He looked up and met Maxwell's eye briefly, and Maxwell had to bite his tongue hard to keep from emitting an audible reaction. The sick feeling in his stomach was back as he surveyed Dorian. Hair unkempt, lines around his eyes, he looked exhausted. His skin was darker, and no wonder, as he'd likely spent more time in the sun in Tevinter. _Sunbathing while people suffered,_ an angry voice in the back of Maxwell's head whispered. He kept quiet as the soldiers pressed Dorian into a chair across from him. Cullen suggested the throne room to put Dorian on his knees in front of Maxwell while Maxwell occupied the Arl's throne. The idea was supported by Bull. But Maxwell fought for something more equal. He would see if he made the right choice.

"Dorian."

Dorian glanced up briefly, then looked away. Maxwell wanted to hate him. But he couldn't. He looked absolutely destroyed. But then, he thought that could be an act. It could all be an act to get inside information into the Inquisition. _He won't be able to pass anything on from behind a jail cell._

"Commander, if you'll leave us."

Cullen looked wary, but signaled the soldiers out, trailing after. He shut the door with one last look at Maxwell, who turned to Bull.

Bull seemed to know what he was thinking and frowned at his expression. "No way."

"Fifteen minutes," Maxwell said quietly.

"No. You want to talk to him, you do it here, with me keeping you safe."

"He's bound, Bull. There's nothing he can do. The manacles are warded." And a little part of him knew that Dorian wouldn't attack him. If Dorian wanted him dead, if anyone in the Venatori wanted him dead, Dorian would've done it a long time ago.

"You can kill a man without magic. In fact, I count thirty-nine ways in this room alone."

Leave it to Bull to know that, Maxwell thought fondly. He laid a hand on his arm and looked at him seriously. "Please."

"I won't hurt him," Dorian said, almost inaudible.

"Too fucking late for that," Bull snapped, standing. "Besides, what the fuck is your word worth?"

"Bull," Maxwell implored, standing as Bull leaned over the table, hands splayed on the top.

"The only reason you're not dead right now is because he's a good person. One _you_ royally fucked over. You're lucky you came stumbling into camp when I wasn't around because you'd be a stain on the side of-"

"Bull! Please!"

Bull turned his glare on Maxwell, expression softening only slightly before he looked back at Dorian. "Whatever he decides for you, you don't deserve it." He growled something angrily in Qunlat, and Maxwell was sure it wasn't anything good.

"That's enough, Bull," he said softly.

Bull kissed the top of his head, grumbling under his breath. "Fifteen minutes," he said. "I'll be right outside." He exited through the door after Cullen, and slammed it shut.

Maxwell let out a breath and sat down heavily. He expected nothing less than that from Bull, and was quite relieved it wasn't anything more. And now he had to deal with this on his own. Folding his hands atop the table, he finally looked up at Dorian. "Well. Let's talk."


	14. Chapter 14

Dorian placed his hands atop the table, the manacles restricting, cutting into his wrists. Maxwell frowned at the red marks which would like wear at the skin and cause them to bleed. _A precaution,_ he told himself. But an unnecessary one, he felt. Then again, what if the Venatori had sent Dorian back to finish the job? What if Corypheus didn't care who killed him, so long as he _was_ killed? And while Bull was right – Dorian's word was worth nothing – Maxwell still believed he should be allowed to talk. No doubt later Cullen would want to interrogate him, and if Leliana returned, she would want to as well. He would have to remind them that the Inquisition did not advocate torture.

"Let's start with how you came through the eluvian," Maxwell said. "Do the Venatori have one?"

"No," Dorian said, then cleared his throat. He leaned back in his chair but kept his hands on the table. "I wasn't with the Venatori. I doubt their possession of a mirror like that. They would have used it by now."

"How, then?" Maxwell asked. And he realized he was asking these questions because he didn't want to know the answers to the ones he truly wanted to ask. He sat up a little straighter, crossed his legs, and leaned forward just a bit.

"It's a very long story, and you only have fifteen minutes before they return," Dorian said. "I'm sure Cullen-"

" _Commander_ Cullen," Maxwell said through gritted teeth. "You will show my men the respect they deserve."

Dorian frowned, not meeting his eye. "Yes, of course," he said quickly. "Commander Cullen will likely take my statement. And I do plan to tell… everything."

"Why?" Maxwell wanted to know. Why did Dorian come back? What happened to make him defect? If he even had?

"I made the gravest mistake I ever have in my entire life," Dorian admitted. "I don't expect anyone to ever forgive me, nor do I wish to make excuses for my actions. I didn't…"

"Why?" Maxwell asked again, and he felt a lump form in his throat. "Why did… Spying was one thing, Dorian. And your actions got a lot of good people killed." He cleared his throat roughly, not wanting to show this weakness in front of him, not wanting Dorian to know how much his betrayal hurt. He could remember Skyhold like it was yesterday, the screams, the cries of their allies. Dorian blasting him back in order to join the Venatori. He felt selfish for the next words that tumbled from his lips. "Why did you make me fall in love with you?"

Dorian looked away, pained. "To make it easier to get information."

Maxwell nodded quickly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, though no tears had fallen yet. He took a steadying breath. "Did you even care about it? About us? Anything?"

Dorian squirmed uncomfortably, an extremely uncharacteristic movement. Maxwell remembered someone full of confidence and life. "I didn't love you."

He knew. A part of him had always known Dorian didn't love him. He didn't want to believe it, though. Hearing it confirmed, it hurt more than he thought it should, months after the fact. "But did you care?"

"I wanted those parts to be good for you."

"So there would be even more of an impact when you broke my heart." It was a low blow, and petty, but Maxwell didn't care. Right now he wanted Dorian to feel even a tenth of the pain he was feeling.

Dorian looked up, frowning. "No. I may be a cruel and callous person but I'm not… I knew it would hurt but I believed you wanted to do the same to me."

"What?" Maxwell couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Dorian, I _loved_ you. You meant so much to me. Why did you think I wanted to hurt you?"

Dorian leaned forward, running both hands through his hair, then laced his fingers behind his head as he bent low. "I thought the Inquisition was going to take over the Imperium." He looked up. "I was told that you were going to reinstate the southern Chantry and their Circles, and then crush our way of life."

"That's utterly ridiculous," Maxwell said, anger replacing the hurt. "You could have just asked. You knew the Inquisition's only plan was to hunt and kill Corypheus. After that, we would have done something about the Chantry but we have never aimed to _conquer._ "

"I know."

"Then why-"

"His name was Lucanus," Dorian said, sitting up and looking at Maxwell, utterly exhausted. "Chiron Lucanus. He was tasked with kidnapping me. He… he tortured me," he whispered, and looked away. "Made me think things I never would have otherwise thought. He…"

"I don't… I don't understand," Maxwell admitted. "How? Blood magic?"

Dorian scoffed, a bitter, mirthless laugh. "If only it were so cut and dry."

"Tell me," Maxwell insisted. "You owe me that."

Dorian glared at him. "And this would be my penance? To relive every embarrassing, horrible, sordid thing that happened to me while in his care? Do you wish me to tell you of how he made a lust demon rape me? How he would strip me and beat me bloody? How he forced me to believe I was worth nothing?"

Maxwell's eyes widened with the realization and understanding. "No, Dorian, I-"

"Or maybe you want to hear about how he was so soft and comforting after? How he would tend my wounds and take care of me? Assure me that everything was going to be fine if I just did as I was told like a good boy?"

"No, that's not-"

"Or maybe how he promised me how important I would be in the ranks of the Venatori, how proud of me my father would be? Then ripped it all away after, with guards trailing my every bloody movement?"

Maxwell waited calmly until Dorian finished, listening to the pain in his words.

"I even wrote to my father and he pretended I didn't exist! Lucanus wanted nothing to do with me afterward because I'd fulfilled my purpose. Thrown away, discarded like yesterday's newspaper with no further use! Is that what you want to know, Inquisitor?"

"No," Maxwell said quietly, letting Dorian's words sink in.

"It's not an excuse," Dorian said, calmer now. "But I will not relive it. Not again. Not in detail. I will tell your interrogators what I know, and then you'll judge me."

They sat for some time in silence, Maxwell thinking hard. His fingers wrapped around his pendant, thumb rubbing against the cold metal. "When you first came to me you said you loved your country. That was the reason you wished to stop Alexius initially." He watched Dorian flinch at Alexius's name, and saw something there. "Tell me. I want to know two things."

"Ask," Dorian said, his voice flat.

"What made you change your mind? What turned you from the Venatori?"

Dorian licked his lips, shifting again. "It was Alexius. His death. I'd asked them to spare his life. When he died, I realized…" He shook his head. "Doesn't matter," he whispered. Then, louder, he said, "And the second?"

Maxwell released his pendant and stood up, looking down at Dorian. "Do you regret it?"

Dorian looked up at him, his own eyes slightly red, glassy now with tears. "Yes. Yes, I do."

Maxwell nodded, keeping his own emotions firmly locked away. "Very well. You'll be relocated to an interrogation room where Cullen will ask you questions. Answer them honestly. Give us any information you can." He started toward the door, stopped, and turned to look at him again. "You won't have to tell anyone else what happened to you. I'll see to it."

Dorian frowned, averting his eyes. "Thank you, Inquisitor. It's more than I deserve."

"The Maker decides the fate of your soul, Dorian. Just remember that."

Before Dorian could respond, Maxwell left, shutting the door firmly behind himself. Bull, who was sitting on a chair just outside, stood at once and hugged him tightly without saying a word. Maxwell reached up and gripped his arms, clinging to him. He felt drained, exhausted, and more than a little sick. But it wasn't over yet. He knew that Cullen would need to interrogate him, and he knew that he should be there as well to hear everything. He wasn't sure he could, though. He wasn't sure he had enough strength. Then he felt Bull kiss the top of his head, and looked up.

"Can you get Cullen? And maybe stand with me in the room when he interrogates him?"

"Of course I will," Bull said gently, crooking a finger under his chin. "You okay?"

Maxwell nodded, then shook his head. "I love you." He paused, confused with his own words. "That's not what I wanted to say."

But Bull looked amused, eyebrow quirked. "But you did."

"I… suppose I did, yes." He let out a nervous laugh. "You're good to me, Bull."

"You deserve someone to be good to you," Bull said, leaning down to kiss him softly. "Come on. Let's go find Cullen."

Maxwell nodded, feeling slightly disheartened at Bull's reaction. It wasn't something he really was expecting to hear Bull say back, but to have said it twice to his only lovers… A sharp pinch at his backside made him yelp, and he looked at Bull, who grinned cheekily at him.

"I love you too, kadan," Bull said, and leaned down to kiss him before tugging him toward the room where Cullen waited.

The future judgment weighed heavily on his mind, but when his bottom throbbed slightly, Maxwell couldn't help smiling just a little.


	15. Chapter 15

"A lot of what he's said can be corroborated by Magister Tilani," Cullen said, passing papers over to Maxwell.

They were sitting in one of Arl Teagan's lounges, several large carafes of coffee on the table between them. Cullen, Maxwell, and Bull had been there for the interrogation, as well as two scribes to take down every one of Dorian's answers. Dorian was currently in a cell in the castle's dungeons, being watched by several guards. Maxwell made it explicitly clear that no one was to hurt him or deride him in any way. He would be naive if he thought the instructions would be carried out perfectly though. Too many people died as a result of Dorian's treachery. However, if he could prevent any bodily harm from coming to him, then all the better. He would pass his judgment later, perhaps even wait until after the war. Maybe Corypheus would kill him and he wouldn't need to sentence his ex-lover. Not that he wanted to die, but it was a responsibility he just wasn't ready for yet.

Anders, who came to join them in their research, gestured to one of the carafes. "Pass the coffee, please."

Maxwell slid it down to him and glanced from him to Solas, who sat on Anders' other side. "What do you think about this Temple of Mythal he mentioned?"

Solas frowned a little, shifting a piece of parchment to the side and looked up. "It is my belief that he is telling the truth. We know that Corypheus was searching for ancient elven temples. Many of them exist, hidden in every corner of Thedas."

"But ancient elves," Cullen said, scowling. He rubbed his forehead and reached for his coffee. "That's far-fetched."

Solas and Anders exchanged a look, and Maxwell glanced at Bull, seeking his opinion. Bull shrugged.

"Is it?" Solas asked. "Magic is a wondrous thing. We've seen it do so much, more than what we expect. Is it then so difficult to believe that elves from ancient times yet linger?"

"Yes," Cullen said flatly.

Anders rolled his eyes. "Don't mind Cullen. He's rather more mundane than your typical templar."

Solas's lips quirked even as Cullen scowled.

"That's enough," Maxwell said. He was tired and didn't need an argument about mage rights to break out while they were trying to wrap their heads around this new information. Usually Anders tended to avoid Cullen, which was for the best. He was, however, very interested in what Solas had to say. "What if we went to the temple ourselves? Followed the mirror back?"

"The eluvians can only be opened with a key," Solas explained. "A word, or power. We could enter the eluvian but it might take days or even weeks or more to find the one that led to the temple."

"And marching into the Arbor Wilds with the troops we have would not be conducive to the war effort," Cullen finished. "It is a lost cause. Let it be."

Maxwell frowned, looking down at the statements Dorian made, the books scattered across the table. "If we knew why Corypheus was there… That well that Dorian mentioned…"

"The vir'abelasan," Solas said. "The place of the way of sorrows."

"There's little information on it," Maxwell said, flipping papers. His eyes started to cross and he shook his head. Bull nudged the mug of coffee next to him and he took a long sip. "I admit that I'm curious, but I'm more worried about Corypheus getting his hands on it, since he wanted it so badly."

"Then I suppose that leaves the question of whether or not we trust that the well was destroyed," Cullen said. "Pavus notes that the elf promised to destroy it."

"Abelas," Solas remarked. He frowned.

"What?" Anders asked.

"His name means 'sorrow'."

"Perhaps he'll find a new one," Maxwell said, leaning back, stretching widely. "Do we trust the information given to us, or should we send a scouting team to the Arbor Wilds to double check?"

Silence fell momentarily while they turned it over in their minds.

"It couldn't hurt to send a small contingent, I suppose," Cullen said.

"And if the Sentinels remain?" Solas asked airily. "Would your men attack the remainder of the ancient elves of Elvhenan?"

"We aren't even sure if they _are_ ancient elves," Cullen insisted. "More likely they're some insane cult broken off from the Dalish-"

"Don't finish that," Bull intoned.

Solas was glaring at Cullen, and if looks could kill, Maxwell was fairly sure Cullen would be a pile of ash. He rapped his knuckles on the table, breaking the uncomfortable tension.

"Apologies, Inquisitor," Cullen said.

"I will need to check with my sources." Solas stood, gathering his books. "Inquisitor. You may find me absent for some time. Please don't be alarmed. I will find you when I have more information."

"Thank you," Maxwell said. "Stay safe."

Solas smiled. "I shall. And please, if you do search for the Temple of Mythal, be sure to take those a little less mundane and a little more respectful of elven culture." With one last glare at Cullen, he left the room.

Bull let out a low whistle. "You really pissed him off."

Cullen looked embarrassed, but didn't comment. He folded up his papers and gathered his own books, taking one last sip of coffee. "I'll speak with my captain about sending soldiers to the Wilds."

"Reconnaissance only," Maxwell ordered. "Urge them to be careful. We want everyone coming back alive. Just a report on the temple, if it's abandoned, if the well still stands. Have Dorian create a map if necessary."

"Yes, Inquisitor."

"Sleep well, Commander," Maxwell said, knowing Cullen likely wouldn't get any sleep at all tonight. He watched him leave, then sat back with a sigh. "Still no closer in figuring out how to deal with the demon army."

Anders tapped his quill pen thoughtfully against his lips a moment. "When Hawke and I had to save a boy from his nightmares, a Dalish keeper sent us into the Fade. Not physically, of course," he added, glancing at Maxwell's hand. "Perhaps your mark could create a focus. Or… I'll ask Merrill if she knows a way. Preferably without blood magic. I'll speak with the Warden Commander as well, since he's probably had more experience than I do with travelling the Fade." He stood as well, stacking up his own books and papers.

"Any ideas you have would be extremely helpful," Maxwell said. He opened his palm, expecting to see the greenish glow, and felt relieved when there was none. "Maybe I'll catch Solas before he goes off. To ask him if opening a rift is possible…"

"I'll go," Anders offered.

Maxwell nodded. "If we enter the Fade, would you like to-"

Anders frowned, pursing his lips, and shook his head. "Only if it's necessary. I've been to the Fade in my dreams, and a handful of waking times since Justice. I prefer not to."

"I understand. Good night, Anders."

"Inquisitor. Iron Bull."

Bull raised a hand in parting as Anders left, and then wrapped an arm around Maxwell, dragging him close. "Come here."

Maxwell went, sliding into his lap, and rested his head against Bull's shoulder. "Long day," he sighed.

"I'm not gonna lie," Bull said, running his fingers through Maxwell's hair. "I want to punch the Vint in the face."

"I know."

"You're not gonna let me, are you?"

"No," Maxwell confirmed. "It won't solve anything."

"Would make me feel better," Bull grumbled.

Maxwell kissed his cheek. "I know. I don't want to discuss Dorian right now though. What do you think about what Anders said? Going into the Fade to find a way to stop the demons?"

"That's something _I_ would rather not think about. Demons getting inside your head. Fucking with you, making you do shit you don't want to do." He actually shuddered.

"Oh Bull," Maxwell sighed. "If that's the plan and you don't want to go-"

"You're not going alone," Bull said immediately.

"No, not alone. Anders might come, and I bet I can convince Hawke and a few others."

Bull pinched his side, and Maxwell squirmed trying to get away. "Not what I meant."

"I know. I was teasing you." He cupped Bull's cheek, then pulled him down for a long, lingering kiss.

Cradled in one of Bull's arms, leaning back against the table, Maxwell relaxed, surrendering to his lover's skillful lips and tongue. A calloused hand snaked its way up his shirt, and he arched into the touch with a happy, contented sigh.

"Mm. Time for bed, I think," Maxwell said, pushing him back. "We'll figure the Fade out tomorrow. Once we have a plan we'll have Cullen contact Gaspard. I'm still not entirely sure of the details. And the precautions we'll need to take. My memories of being in the Fade were lost when I left. I don't want to chance that happening again."

"Just when things were getting good, you went all business on me again." But Bull smirked, letting Maxwell know he was joking.

"Engaging in activities in Arl Teagan's lounge is not befitting a proper guest," Maxwell insisted. "However, he is letting us stay in a guest room tonight so we don't have to walk back to the inn."

"You planned that," Bull said approvingly. He shifted Maxwell off his lap and blew out the candles. "Lead the way."

Maxwell gave one last passing thought for Dorian as he led Bull toward the guest wing.

_Maker, please guide my hand so that I judge him with a clear head, and without anger in my heart._


	16. Chapter 16

The dungeons in Redcliffe castle were, at the very least, warmer than the cell where Lucanus held him for so long. And while the guards had several choice things to say to him, he barely registered them. Food was brought to him, just a simple stew and some hard bread with a cup of heavily watered wine, but Dorian appreciated the hospitality. He knew it was Maxwell's doing, that under anyone else's command, he would've been flogged before and after they interrogated him. Judging from the look on Cullen's face, he likely wanted to. It was Maxwell's hand that stayed both him and the Iron Bull.

Thinking the Qunari brought another feeling to light. An odd, awkward feeling that Dorian felt he had no right to: jealousy. It was obvious something was going on between them. With Dorian out of the way, of course it was bound to happen. But Dorian had already reconciled his feelings for Maxwell. There was guilt and nothing more. Love never factored into it. Possession was at the topmost of the list when he was with Maxwell. Maxwell once told him that Bull expressed an interest in him. Leave it to the Qunari to move in just as soon as he was out of the picture.

"You're hurting."

"Hello, Cole." Dorian rolled over on the thin mattress, looking at Cole who appeared in his cell, standing against the stone wall. "You came back."

"I watched and waited. I knew you needed me."

"You knew I was in trouble?" Dorian asked. He sat up and slid over, patting the mattress next to him.

Cole smiled from beneath the brim of his hat and fairly leapt across the cell to sit. He drew up his legs and pulled his knees into his chest, hugging them tightly. "I felt it," he confirmed. "When you spoke to the Inquisitor, it drew some of the pain out, like a needle drawing blood."

"Oh? Then why did it hurt so much?" Dorian missed this. The odd conversations he had with Cole, trying to figure out his way of thinking. Mostly he missed having someone to talk to who wouldn't judge him. Someone who listened to him without looking at him as either a failure or a traitor.

"When the hurt is tangled up with other emotions, it's harder to unravel it. Does yelling help?"

Dorian laughed. "Maybe. My father and I used to shout at one another quite a lot. Perhaps it was our way of unraveling the pain."

"He thinks about you."

"Don't talk about that, Cole. It's too much."

"Oh." Cole rested his chin on his knees. "He came to the estate."

Dorian looked at him sharply. "What?"

"'I want to see my son. You have no right to withhold him from me!'"

"...My father would never say that," Dorian said carefully. Cole didn't lie though. Dorian wasn't sure he even knew how to. "To whom did he speak?"

"The other one."

"Servis." Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. "My father came and talked to Servis about taking me home." _Too bad it hadn't happened sooner,_ he thought bitterly. But would he have gone? "What else was said?"

"'I'll look for him on my own, no thanks to you.' He was scared. The anger swirled with anxiety. He was tense and tired. Tired of trying, wanting to make sense of…"

"Of what?" Dorian pressed.

"What you wanted."

"What I _wanted_ was a father who respected my own choices. What I _wanted_ was to not become an experiment of blood magic. To be forced to fit into a life that was so carefully planned out for me even before I was born."

Cole reached out and took Dorian's hand, entwining their fingers to rest on the mattress between them. "Don't be angry. He wants to apologize."

"My father's never apologized for anything in his life!" Dorian gritted his teeth, then squeezed Cole's hand. "Would you be able to let him know that I'm alive? That I… might never be able to see him again." It was a sobering thought. When he left home for the first time after his disownment, everything felt surreal. He had only a general idea of where he was going and what he was going to do. Now, he had no choices left to him. He couldn't even return to Tevinter. At least he wouldn't put his father in danger. The Venatori thought he was still in the Arbor Wilds. When the bodies of the others were found, they would hopefully assume the worst.

"He won't remember me."

"Of course." Dorian often forgot that part. "Would he remember the message?"

Cole nodded. "But not how he knows."

"I don't think that matters much at this point, Cole. Just as long as he knows I'm alive. I'll get a letter to him when I can, but that might not be for a very long time. If I die-" He saw Cole flinch. "It may happen, Cole. If the Inquisitor decides my fate, if he… wants to hang me or take my head, I need you to tell my father."

"He won't," Cole insisted. "He won't. He's conflicted. The feelings swirling inside him, tangled up just like yours."

"Cole," Dorian said, tugging his hand to make Cole look at him. "Listen to me very closely. What I did was unforgivable. I hurt people. I hurt you, remember?"

Cole nodded, but stayed silent.

"My actions got a lot of good people killed."

"But you didn't know!" Cole insisted.

"You didn't know when you killed the mages of the White Spire," Dorian said gently. "Does that mean you shouldn't be punished?"

Cole fell silent, picking at the wool of the thin blanket with his free hand, contemplating Dorian's question.

"Ignorance of facts doesn't excuse the actions. Not that I particularly want to embrace my death, but should the Inquisitor decide it, I need you to promise me that you won't interfere."

Cole fidgeted, looking away, face hidden in shadow.

"Cole," Dorian said sternly. "Promise me."

"I promise," Cole whispered, barely audible in the dark, musty cell. "I would miss you."

Dorian slid an arm around Cole's shoulder, plucking his hat off to avoid being poked by the large brim. He smiled as Cole settled against him. "I would miss you too."

-

Despite what others might have thought, Bull was quite a light sleeper. When you worked the circuits he did, everything from Seheron to Nevarra and Orlais, you had to be ready for anything. He'd trained his body to go from a complete dead sleep to instantly able to kill a man. It was a technique that saved his life on more than one occasion, and it was invaluable now. The air in the room changed, the soft sound of footsteps on the carpet, and Bull sprang from bed, knocking the intruder to the ground in an instant.

"Bull?" Maxwell lit a candle before pulling a robe around himself. "Who is… Cole? What's going on?" His voice was heavy with sleep and confusion.

It took several seconds for everything to register, for Bull to remember who this was. A demon. No, a spirit, who used to be with the Inquisition. But that didn't explain what he was doing here, appearing in their room in the middle of the night.

"Bull, get off him. And Maker's sake, put some pants on."

"I'm not letting him up until he explains."

"Release his throat at least."

Bull did, easing up just a little, eye narrowed as Cole took a breath. "Talk."

"I-I came here to speak to the Inquisitor," Cole stammered, hands up in a gesture of surrender. He looked wide-eyed at Maxwell.

"Speak to me about what?" Maxwell asked, holding the candle out. "Where have you been, Cole? We haven't seen you since Skyhold fell."

"With Dorian. He's sad. He needed me. He thinks you're going to kill him." Cole struggled against Bull's hold, then disappeared.

"Shit, I forgot he could do that," Bull said, looking up at Maxwell.

"Cole," Maxwell said calmly to the thin air, "no one is going to hurt Dorian."

"Yet," Bull muttered.

Maxwell gave him a look, then glanced around the dimly lit room. "Cole? Come out so we can talk."

Bull saw him by the window and took a step, but Maxwell held him back. Well, he put a hand on his bare chest, which was more symbolic than anything. Very little could stop Bull once he got going. But if Maxwell wanted him to stand down, he would for now. At first he'd just been a self-proclaimed bodyguard. It was obvious Maxwell didn't know how to defend himself. Then he had to go and develop _feelings_ for the guy. Not that he minded, but it almost seemed as if Maxwell lacked any self-preservation sense at all. It frustrated Bull because he knew he couldn't always be there for him. There was a chance they could be separated in battle, or one of them would get hurt. Or Corypheus might actually win. _Then we'd all be fucked,_ he reasoned.

"Get dressed," Maxwell urged him. He looked at Cole. "You spoke with Dorian?"

Cole nodded. "He's in the dungeons."

Bull grudgingly grabbed his pants from the floor and pulled them on. "Where he deserves to be after the shit he pulled."

"Were you trying to kill me, Cole?" Maxwell asked, his voice irritatingly calm and quiet.

"No."

That would've been the last straw for Bull. But Cole hadn't attacked either of them. Maybe he _was_ just here to talk. Still, the idea of a spirit being able to pop into whatever room he wanted was really unnerving.

"Why are you here? To talk about Dorian?"

"It isn't his fault," Cole insisted. "The others, they twisted him. Made him wrong. He never meant for this to happen. You can't hurt him."

"Maxwell," Bull said, using his given name possibly for the first time ever. He stepped forward.

"Just give me a minute," Maxwell said. He turned to look at Bull, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "There's more to it than you know." He looked back to Cole. "Did Dorian send you to talk to me?"

Cole shook his head. "No. I waited until he was asleep. He's afraid. He says he isn't, but he doesn't want to die."

"Should've thought about that before he turned traitor," Bull snapped, then gritted his teeth. While there was little honor in executing someone, even traitors, some people deserved it. It wasn't as if they could reeducate Dorian. He would break. But that wasn't how Maxwell operated. And this decision wasn't his. Still, a lot of people wanted to see Dorian hang. Bull only hoped that whatever Maxwell decided didn't piss off the majority of the Inquisition. Leaders had been overthrown for less, after all.

"I haven't made my decision yet," Maxwell said, ignoring Bull for the moment. "Were you with him the entire time he was with the Venatori?"

"They promised him a better life. They lied. I'm not going to leave him. They couldn't make me and neither can you."

Bull watched Maxwell's lips tighten into a flat, mirthless line. But his shoulders relaxed. "You can stay with him for as long as you wish. Are you interested in still helping the Inquisition? We want to stop the ones who hurt Dorian. Our goal is the same as it was."

Cole shifted, arms swinging as he thought. "Yes."

"Come find me tomorrow. Anders will want to talk to you. Maybe the two of you together can come up with an idea about the demon army. And Cole?"

Cole tilted his head slightly.

"No more sneaking into anyone's room at night. It's not polite."

Cole nodded once more and disappeared, presumably to return to Dorian. Maxwell let out a heavy breath and turned to Bull.

"You sure that's the best idea?" Bull asked. "Letting him have free run of the castle?"

"Cole doesn't like hurting people," Maxwell insisted. "He was upset. Wouldn't you be upset if you thought a friend of yours was going to die?"

Bull grumbled low in his throat, holding back on what he thought about that. "And if he loses control? Tries to get into someone's head?"

"I'll talk to Anders in the morning. With Solas gone, he's our resident expert on spirits, everything considered." Maxwell leaned up on his toes, wrapping his arms around Bull's neck, and tugged him down for a kiss. "Please don't be angry."

Their lips met in a brief, chaste kiss, and Bull held him loosely around the waist. "I'm not." He frowned, pressing his forehead against Maxwell's, thinking. "Even with all the shit you've been through, you still want to believe people are good-"

"They _are_ ," Maxwell insisted.

"Not all of them."

"Dorian regrets what happened. Cole is on our side. We're making progress." Maxwell cupped his cheek and kissed him again. "What are you worried about?"

"Losing you." A sappy sentiment, but Bull saw no reason to lie or hide his feelings. He'd never met anyone quite like Maxwell. Everyone he surrounded himself with had a healthy dose of cynicism. Maxwell wanted to believe the best in everyone. A part of him even believed Corypheus could be redeemed, though Bull hoped he gave up on that idea. It had been so long since he had something he could believe in. The Qun made sense on many levels, but the world was a shithole. Maxwell didn't see it that way.

"Oh, Bull," he sighed. 

Maxwell kissed him sweetly, and Bull, knowing he needed to trust Maxwell's judgment, took him to bed.


	17. Chapter 17

Maxwell cupped his hands around the warm mug of coffee and took a careful sip. His head was spinning slightly, listening to Anders detail the journey that they would take and what it would entail. Bull stood behind him, hands on his shoulders, kneading gently. Next to him sat Blackwall, silent, eyes ahead. He hadn't had a chance to speak to him privately yet except to express his condolences regarding Sera. He would need to rectify that before they put the next phase of their plan into operation.

"To physically enter the Fade would take more power than we have," Anders explained. "Even with the Inquisitor's mark, it's a dangerous, unstable prospect. However, Merrill, Solas, Cole and I have outlined the theory of entering the Fade while conscious in order to fight the fear demon that seems to be the hub of control."

"Seems to be," Cullen said. He stood near the door of the meeting room, arms crossed, looking apprehensive about it all. He wouldn't be coming with them, his experiences with the Fade giving him a very narrowed view on what they needed to do. Besides that, he was needed here. "We're taking an awful risk on theory."

Hawke, who sat next to Anders, turned to look at Cullen. "You've a better plan? March directly into Orlais? Fight an army of tireless demons and throw ourselves at them while they overwhelm us?"

"That is not what I was suggesting-"

"Enough," Maxwell said, the dizziness turning into a headache. The plan was incredible, and he wasn't sure it would work, but he needed to trust that the mages knew what they were doing and what they were talking about. Anders had a Fade spirit inside him. Solas studied the Fade his entire life. Cole _was_ a spirit himself. And Merrill, for all her apparent naiveté, was raised Dalish and knew the ritual that would bring them into the Fade.

Anders cleared his throat and continued when Maxwell nodded at him. "Normally only mages can achieve this sort of waking dream state. With the ritual, powered by lyrium," he clarified, "we can send a small group of us into the Fade. I spoke with the Warden-Commander and he states that he was able to do this during the Blight when Connor Guerrin became possessed. Theoretically, if we destroy the fear demon controlling Warden-Commander Clarel, the rest will fall."

"And then Gaspard will move into Val Royeaux with his men," Maxwell concluded. "Leliana assures me that Briala's spies as well as ours are waiting on our signal. If we capture the magister who's holding the capital, we can easily take the rest of the country."

"Or kill him," Hawke added.

Maxwell frowned, and felt Bull squeeze his shoulders. "Only if necessary."

Cullen shifted and cleared his throat. "The magister will fight. We'll use the appropriate force to stop him."

"All that remains," Anders cut in, derailing the argument quickly, "is to divide our people and decide who'll go with you into the Fade."

Maxwell looked up at Bull immediately, and felt slightly guilty when Bull nodded. "That's one. Blackwall?"

"Of course," Blackwall agreed.

"I will as well," Anders said, somewhat tentatively. Hawke touched his arm, and Anders covered his hand with his own. "Hawke's going to meet up with Gaspard's troops. He'll take some of our own people as back up for Orlais." He looked at Cullen. "I trust that's acceptable."

Cullen glanced at Maxwell, who fixed him with a stern look. "Yes, of course," Cullen said carefully.

"When will this take place?" Maxwell asked. "How much time do we have to prepare?"

"Tomorrow night at the latest," Anders said, gathering his papers and standing. "We'll get to work right away to prepare for it. The throne room is convenient for the spell."

The others got to their feet as well, Maxwell leaning forward a little apprehensively. "And our bodies will be… here?"

Anders nodded. "It's safe. It was a common practice in the Circles. And this will hopefully be less stressful than the Harrowing." He glanced over at Cullen, who merely looked away.

Maxwell decided not to ask. "Tomorrow night then." He watched the others file out, stopping Blackwall. "Just a minute. Bull, do you mind?"

Bull glanced from Blackwall to Maxwell, then nodded before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him.

"I'm sorry I haven't made time for you," Maxwell said carefully, gesturing Blackwall back to his seat. He sank into his chair as well, feeling guilty. "How are you?"

"It's war," Blackwall said evenly. "Good people die."

"Yes, but how are you? Do you need to talk to someone?"

Blackwall cleared his throat. One hand rested atop the table, index finger tapping lightly against the wood. The fidgeting alone caused Maxwell more concern than anything; it simply wasn't in Blackwall's nature.

"With all that's happened," Blackwall began slowly, his gravelly voice quieter than usual, "I didn't expect you'd have time. It's not an issue, Inquisitor."

Maxwell winced a little at the formality. While he knew Blackwall likely came from a military background and was used to addressing superior officers in a way, it stung a little. Maxwell never considered any of his people subordinates, even if they did look to him for orders. He hoped he was more approachable than say, Cullen was, when it came to personal matters. "I try to make it a priority to speak with my friends. We've had little time with you being in the field. Was there anything you wanted to talk about?" he asked gently.

Perhaps too gently. Blackwall tapped his fingertip a bit more quickly, then stopped suddenly. "No. It'll wait until after this mission is over with and we take back Orlais." He stood. "By your leave, Inquisitor."

"Of course." As soon as the words left his mouth, Blackwall strode to the door and exited, leaving Maxwell to wonder what that was about. He was still frowning in contemplation when he felt Bull's heavy hand on his shoulder. "Something's wrong with Blackwall. He wouldn't say what." Some of the tension ebbed as Bull started to massage his shoulders. "I think he's taking Sera's death hard."

"Wouldn't doubt it," Bull said. "But you think there's something else? Something more?"

"Maybe." Maxwell rubbed his eye with the back of his hand and yawned. Despite the early hour, he hadn't been sleeping well. There was too much to do. "Could I ask you to keep an eye on him while we're in the Fade?"

Bull sat down next to him. "Sure thing."

"Are you going to be all right? I know how you feel about demons," Maxwell said, looking at him, concerned.

Bull grunted. "Stab 'em enough, and demons die like everything else."

Maxwell chuckled, shaking his head. "You're cute when you're pretending to be brave," he teased, then yelped and twisted away when Bull pinched his side. "How are you supposed to prepare to enter the Fade? Usually I just see it in dreams. For as much as I've learned about magic in the last year, I still don't understand it."

"I don't think you're supposed to," Bull said, shrugging.

"I guess you're right." He sighed and leaned against Bull, forehead pressed to his chest. "It feels like everything we've been working for is finally coming to an end. If this plan works, we retake Orlais." The thought settled slowly in his mind. Gaspard would claim the throne. Cullen assured him the Grand Duke's military mind would be paramount in reuniting the country, and he would head the relief effort with enthusiasm. Maxwell wasn't sure he was the best choice; Gaspard's fervor for expanding his country wasn't exactly a secret. But at the very least, he hoped any conflict between Ferelden and Orlais would be postponed until Corypheus was dead. They couldn't afford to stretch their resources so thin.

"Something else on your mind?"

Maxwell shrugged. "Everything was going so well."

"Still is." Bull paused. "Ah. You mean him."

The fact that Bull couldn't even say his name was telling of how he felt. Maxwell was reluctant to drag the subject on, but he needed someone to understand. "I don't hate him for what he did."

"I know." Bull's words were clipped, his tone slightly terse.

Maxwell looked at him, cupped his cheek, and guided his face for a chaste kiss. "There were… circumstances. I won't betray his confidence-" He frowned when Bull snorted, irritated and amused. "But," he continued, "Dorian didn't have-"

"Don't say he didn't have a choice," Bull said, cutting him off. "Because he did. He just didn't choose the right one."

"I… you're right. But he didn't _think_ he had a choice."

"And now he wants you to pardon him."

"No," Maxwell gently, and laid his head against Bull's shoulder again. "No, I think he knows he deserves whatever sentence is coming to him."

_"Do you regret it?"_

_"Yes. Yes, I do."_

Maxwell frowned, remembering his conversation with Dorian. Of course, no amount of regrets or apologies could undo what was done, but he had to remember what the Chantry taught. If you were truly repentant for your sins, you deserved to be absolved of them, and granted a place at the Maker's side.

"What are you going to do?" Bull asked, his voice quiet, Maxwell listening to the deep timbre in his chest.

"I don't know yet," he admitted.

Bull shifted, pressing a kiss to Maxwell's temple. "If anyone gives you shit about it, I'll take care of them."

Maxwell laughed, feeling the burden ease just a little. While he normally wouldn't care much what people thought of him, the last year taught him that so many looked to him as an example. Most of them would judge him for his decision, no matter what it was. "Promise me that you'll still love me no matter what I decide."

"Hey." Bull reached up, gripped his chin gently, and looked at him, expression serious. "One thing's got nothing to do with the other. Understand?"

Maxwell nodded. "I know. There's just so much potential for everything to go wrong. I wanted to make sure."

"I hear you," Bull said, kissing him. He stood, pulling Maxwell easily to his feet. "Come on. We should get ready for this stupid Fade thing."

Maxwell couldn't help the laugh that escaped, letting his fingers entwine with Bull's. While the Fade and demons weren't things that were particularly funny, the fact that Bull had at least one fear was reassuring in an odd way. "I'll keep you safe," he teased as they left the room.

"Oh really?" Bull squeezed his hand.

"Forever. I promise."

"Well," Bull said, "that makes me feel better."


	18. Chapter 18

"Nervous?"

Bull grunted. He wasn't looking forward to what they were about to do. Especially the 'leave your body behind' part. Instructing Krem specifically to look over himself and Maxwell, he was a little more at ease, but not much. Asking his lieutenant to watch his back in battle was one thing. This… this was something else. The only choice he had in this was to either go and deal with it, or not go. And from where he stood, not going wasn't truly an option. He knew Blackwall and Anders would work to keep Maxwell safe in the Fade, but it would be a cold day in Par Vollen before he'd allow Maxwell to go in without him. But it was sweet of Maxwell to worry about him, and he gripped the back of his neck, pulling him close to kiss the top of his head.

"I'll be fine, kadan. Let's worry about that damned demon. We kill it, we do our job. Gaspard and Cullen, they do theirs. We get Orlais."

Maxwell nodded resolutely, and looked at Anders and Fiona. They and several other mages stood near a pedestal that reminded Bull of a marble birdbath he saw once in some nobleman's front yard. It was destroyed in the ensuing fight. That had been full of water, though, while this one was full to the brim with shimmering liquid lyrium. As they stepped closer, the green mark on Maxwell's hand flared, and Bull saw him clench and flex his fingers. He'd said before that it didn't pain him, but Bull wondered. He glanced past Maxwell to Blackwall, who stood with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on the lyrium. Bull knew him as a capable fighter. He hoped the same would be true inside the Fade as well as out, and that they weren't bringing along someone who could turn into a liability.

"It's been some time since I've done this. When we enter," Anders said, holding his palms out over the lyrium, "Justice will likely emerge. He understands the importance of our mission."

"Great," Bull muttered, crossing his arms. Just what they really needed. He trusted Anders. You didn't fight alongside someone for as long as they did and not trust someone. But he wasn't sure about the thing inside his head.

"If you follow him, he'll lead you to the source. We won't necessarily have to defeat the demon. A banishment should work just as well."

"If it's here in the real world," Maxwell said, "how can it be in the Fade too?"

Fiona gestured to the lyrium pool. "Your bodies will remain here, but your essence will be in the Fade. Similarly, the demon's true form remains in the Fade, though it can cause great destruction in our world. It is connected, but not possessing a body. We theorize that a demon of that power possessing a living being would destroy the being, and our reports state that Warden-Commander Clarel is still very much alive."

Bull wondered if that would still be true after everything was over. He had no idea if it was even possible to save the Wardens that were enthralled to the demons. Thankfully that was not his concern. He supposed the mages would worry about that.

"Ready?" Anders asked, raising a hand and beckoning Maxwell over.

Maxwell stepped up tentatively, and Bull watched him reach toward the lyrium. A bright bluish-white light encompassed his body, and in a flash, he dropped to the floor, unconscious. Though that was exactly what was supposed to happen, it didn't stop his instinctive reaction to want to run to his side, possibly to even shove Anders out of the way. But he kept himself in check, and calmly stepped up. Reluctant though he was to actually do this, he knew it had to be done, and he reached out to touch the lyrium.

The world spun and he tipped forward, feeling a pull around him like he had way too much to drink. He felt nauseous at once and dropped to a knee, trying to halt the disorientation. A familiar hand touched his shoulder, and he looked up at Maxwell, who appeared whole and intact, if a little apprehensive. He covered Maxwell's hand with his own, then stood and looked around.

"So, this is the Fade?"

"Certainly feels like a dream," Maxwell noted.

He was right. Nothing felt solid, not even the ground under his feet. A sickly green mist swirled around his ankles, and Bull suddenly knew that if he looked down, he would see nothing beneath him. _Right. Eye up,_ he told himself. But the landscape did nothing to ease the discomfort. Rolling hills that were the wrong shade of green, trees that didn't seem exactly right, and a sky that was more purple than blue. But he didn't have to think about it for long. Next to him, Blackwall appeared, looking as stoic as he had back in the throne room.

"All right?" Maxwell asked, to which Blackwall nodded, and checked his sword at his side. "Where's-"

"We are here," said a deep, smooth voice.

They turned, and Bull couldn't suppress the shudder at seeing Anders, his skin cracked and glowing, his pupil-less eyes staring at them. If the Fade felt wrong, this thing was… well, he supposed _abomination_ was the right word for it. He was just glad that it was on their side.

"It's nice to finally meet you," Maxwell said. He moved to step forward, but Bull pulled him back. "Bull, it's fine."

"We should not linger here," Justice said. "You would do well to follow closely." And without another word, he started off in the direction of the hills.

"I trust Anders," Bull said, releasing Maxwell. "I don't trust that thing. Remember, we're on his turf now."

"Smart," Blackwall said. "Stay vigilant." He drew his sword and followed.

Maxwell rolled his eyes. "You're both paranoid." He trailed after Blackwall, jogging lightly to keep up the pace.

"Better paranoid than possessed," Bull muttered, but followed them. 

They walked in silence, Bull keeping an eye on the surroundings, though he supposed if any demons were going to ambush them, they wouldn't need things like narrow passages or high cliff ridges or dense trees. They could just simply appear, couldn't they? Or maybe they were here now, but invisible. He looked over his shoulder, a weird itching sensation in his brain, but nothing was there.

"So does the Fade always look like this?" Maxwell asked, pulling ahead to walk even with Justice.

"It is a realm that will bend to those with a strong enough will. You are not a mage, yet you can change the path before us."

"I can?"

"Anything that'll get us there faster," Bull said, though he wasn't completely sold on the idea of the suggestion.

"There are places in the Fade that are unchanging," Justice continued. "But few spirits deign to roam there."

"Why?" Maxwell was curious, far too curious for Bull's tastes, and he wasn't sure he'd like the answer.

"The Black City."

"Yeah, don't ask a follow-up to that, okay?" Bull said, hoping Maxwell would let things be.

The hills flattened suddenly, the landscape shifting, the mist and fog thickening. Bull pulled his warhammer from his back, dropping immediately into a fighting stance. Blackwall closed ranks with him, flanking Maxwell. 

Justice, however, did not seem affected by change. He stood, hands on his hips, looking toward the horizon. "It is good to see you again."

Out of the mist stepped a white silhouette with a curvy figure and long flowing hair. "As it is good to see you, my friend." She spoke with an ethereal voice, one that made Bull feel like everything was going to be all right. Instantly he thought of the Tamassrans, and one in particular that he was fond of. "You bring mortals into our realm." Her form faded into mist and solidified behind Maxwell. "This one, I like."

"Keep your hands or whatever you have off him," Bull warned.

"Who are you?" Maxwell asked, turning to look at her. "You're beautiful."

"I am a spirit of faith."

"Makes sense," Blackwall said, lowering his weapon.

Bull wasn't so trusting. "They make those?"

"Anders said that spirits embody our virtues," Maxwell explained. He held out his hand, and the spirit of faith took it with both of hers. "Are you here to help us?"

"You cannot face your fears until you restore what it took from you."

"I don't follow." Maxwell frowned. "What do you mean what it took from me? I've never even seen the demon we're after."

"I touched the soul of the woman you call Divine. I was there the day you came to this place."

Maxwell's eyes widened. "The Temple of Sacred Ashes. The Divine's Conclave! You saw it happen. All of it?"

"So this giant demon of fear was there, too?" Bull asked.

"Yes," she confirmed. "It took your memories and hid them away."

"But why?" Maxwell asked, clearly distressed.

"Battle fatigue," Blackwall grunted. When Maxwell looked at him, confused, he continued. "You see it all the time. Burnout on the field or after. Soldier sees too much, something in his head snaps. He can't take it. Whatever you saw, maybe it's best you didn't remember."

Bull gritted his teeth. Flashes of his old life, fighting on Seheron, the things he saw, the things he still had nightmares about – did he really want Maxwell to remember something that would drive him into madness? "Yeah, maybe you're right."

Maxwell frowned. "But I need to know what happened that day. I need to know about this." He held out his hand, the green light radiating vividly from his palm. "Corypheus said it was a mistake. I need to know if this was a gift from Andraste or…"

"Whatever it is, it ain't worth losing your head over."

"I know you're worried-"

"You're damn right I'm worried!" Bull snapped, a bit more forcefully than he meant to.

Blackwall coughed and averted his eyes, turning away from them. But, being the only other non-spirit in their group, he was the only one. Faith, shimmering and bright, hovered slightly above the ground. What passed for her head was tilted in a curious way, while Justice fixed his glowing blue eyes directly on them.

Maxwell touched his wrist. "I have to know."

"And if you come back a drooling vegetable? Mind broken so badly that you don't know left from right?"

"I… can't promise that won't happen," Maxwell admitted. "But I don't think it will. If it does… you don't have to stay with me."

Bull glared. He knew why Maxwell said it, relieving him of any future obligations, giving him permission to move on should something happen. And if their positions were reversed, he'd feel the same way. But he didn't grow to love the man in front of him just to run away at the first sign of hardship. He didn't admit to love lightly, but when he said it, he meant it fully. "I'm not leaving you. No matter what."

Maxwell smiled, and pulled him down for a kiss, which Bull grudgingly returned.

"We've lingered too long," Justice said. "If you are to recover your memories, you must go with Faith now. We'll press forward toward the demon's resting place and await your return."

Maxwell took a deep breath and nodded. With one last look to both Bull and Blackwall, he reached up and took Faith's hand, disappearing into the mist to recover his lost memories. Feeling a bit ill, but knowing what they had to do, Bull followed Justice further into the Fade.


	19. Chapter 19

Never having experienced the Fade in dreams or otherwise, Iron Bull wasn't entirely sure what to expect as he and Blackwall ventured deeper into the dreamlike world. They moved silently, dispatching angry lesser demons that got in their way, little creepy crawly things that burst into particles of dust as they died. Bull didn't trust his own mind in here, and he recognized how dangerous that could potentially be. Blackwall remained silent, eyes fixed on Justice, who was equally silent. No one spoke even when they entered a fight, and Bull became more unnerved the longer they walked.

He missed Maxwell, wondering where he was now. Hoping he was safe. While he felt similar feelings for his boys, it was a different sort of emotion. Not that he didn't understand love. He loved a great many deal of his friends in lifetime. But the disconnect was usually that he didn't sleep with them. Sex was largely impersonal, especially when it was only one or two nights. The intimacy he shared with Maxwell was definitely more intense. There was an unshakable trust. But what if Maxwell still had feelings for the Vint?

"We are nearing its lair," Justice said. "Your thoughts bleed into the Fade. Hold them close." He turned his cold glare on Bull, then Blackwall.

Bull frowned. Was it the damned demon? Was the thing inside his head, trying to cast doubt over his feelings for Maxwell? Thinking about it now he did feel a bit stupid for even considering the possibility that Maxwell would leave him for anyone else, least of all someone who hurt and betrayed him so badly. While the knowledge that the fear demon was likely causing these doubts made him feel better about Maxwell, it did nothing to keep him calm in the long run.

"There, beyond the ridge. Be ready to engage it."

The sky darkened ominously, fading quickly from noonday blue to twilight, then midnight black. Only there were no stars, no moon. A warm wind carried a foul stench from the ridge beyond, and just visible in the distance, they saw it. Tall and eyeless, with claw-like tentacles sprouting from its flat, light-grey skin, its mouth full of razor like teeth which it gnashed, catching their scent. Bull winced as it screeched, a high-pitched scream like a hawk catching its prey. Both he and Blackwall drew their weapons, Justice's palms filling with white energy. The moment stretched, neither side moving. The wind shifted suddenly.

Bull and Blackwall leapt forward as one to flank the creature which reared back, clawed hands and tentacles writhing and slashing at the air. One of Justice's spells hit the demon directly in its chest, forcing it back further. Bull swung hard, catching it on its side, opening a deep wound which bled black, acrid ichor.

_That's just perfect,_ Bull thought bitterly, dodging a blow.

The sky opened, flashes of lightning engulfing the area in shades of green and blue. A figure dropped from the hole in the atmosphere, falling twenty feet to the ground to land in a crouch. Bull braced himself, but halted as soon as he realized who it was. Maxwell straightened, the gale force winds of the abrupt storm whipping his blond locks over his forehead. He thrust his left hand out, the lightning of the storm concentrating in his palm, which shook with the force of the magic in the air. With a desperate cry, he reared back then flung his hand out toward the demon. A brilliant swirling ball of black and green energy shot forward and blasted through the demon, ripping it to pieces.

The storm calmed.

Maxwell dropped to his knees.

"Maker's balls," Blackwall breathed, as Bull rushed forward.

"Maxwell?" Bull asked, dropping his weapon, grabbing him by the shoulders.

"'M'fine," Maxwell muttered, falling limply into his arms. "Tell you about it… after… my nap."

He fell unconscious, and Bull gathered him close, checking for a pulse. It was there, racing, but strong beneath his fingertips.

"We should leave this place," Justice said, impervious to the emotions of the others. "It will be disappointing to return, but Anders' body does not belong here."

"Yeah but how do we get out?" Bull asked. He wondered if it was as simple as falling asleep. Getting in had felt much the same.

Justice huffed, an annoyed, impatient sound. "I will never understand the appeal of the mortal body. So limited."

As Bull was about to protest, he felt himself falling through his own consciousness, losing which way was up. He gripped Maxwell tightly, unwilling to let him go, until he lost hold of him completely. There was a brief moment of vertigo, a wave of nausea, and then Fiona was standing over him, her slim fingers cupping his face.

"Can you see me?" she asked.

"Yeah," Bull muttered. "Yeah I see you. The others?"

"Quite all right."

Bull pulled himself to a sitting position, shuddering at the lingering feelings, and reached out to grip Maxwell's arm.

"I'm here," Maxwell assured him.

But Bull didn't care. He pulled him close and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, kissing the top of his head. "Yeah."

"You all right?" Maxwell asked, clearly still exhausted, but concerned.

"Better now. Let's never do that again." He looked at Blackwall. "That fear demon fuck you up as bad as it did me?"

Blackwall shuddered, then shrugged. "Could do with a couple of pints and a good meal."

"Now you're talking." Bull stood slowly, swaying a bit. Beer and food and maybe sleep sounded great. Though the fight lasted all of a few minutes, he felt more drained than he'd ever been. And the way Maxwell staggered to his feet, no doubt he was feeling the same. "You want to talk about what you saw?"

"Later," Maxwell promised him. He looked first at Blackwall, then to Anders, who was sitting with his elbows resting on his knees. "Anders?"

"I'm all right, Inquisitor," Anders said quietly. "It's always draining when Justice emerges. I don't remember-"

"The demon is dead," Maxwell confirmed. "Justice was very helpful."

Anders let out a small, almost nervous laugh. "That's definitely good to hear." He pressed his fingertips to his forehead, massaging lightly, a burst of magic surging forth. "Does anyone else need healing?"

Maxwell looked to Bull, then shook his head. "No. I think we'll… we need to talk a bit. Blackwall?"

"I'm fine, Inquisitor. We'll talk later," he added, seeing the apprehension in Maxwell's face.

"All right," Maxwell agreed, though he was hesitant. He followed Bull out of the castle, flexing his fingers, stumbling a little.

"Does it hurt?" Bull asked, catching him under the elbow. "You going to tell me what happened?"

"Let's get outside the city," Maxwell suggested. "There's a spot down by the lake that's private enough. Let me send a bird to Orlais first. Maker, I hope this worked."

Bull watched Maxwell stop at one of the tents in the town commons, his elegant script only slightly less immaculate than normal as he asked about the status of the army. With any luck, they would hear an answer in a few days' time, and with a little more luck, the news would be good. Task complete, he followed Maxwell outside the city gates and over a winding path toward the lake. His head still buzzed uncomfortably with the demon's voice, the insinuations that Maxwell would return to Dorian, that something else would happen that would tear them apart, perhaps death or…

He swore under his breath.

"Bull?"

"Just… grah!" Frustration building, he turned toward a lone tree and punched hard, knuckles splitting against the bark. Maxwell jumped at the sudden outburst, then reached up tentatively. "Sorry."

"What is it?"

"...Didn't mean to scare you." He looked at Maxwell, who smiled lightly, head tilted. "What?"

"You startled me, that's all. It's not as if you would ever punch _me_. Tell me what you need."

Bull scowled at the blood on his hand, then reached up, pulling on a low-hanging branch. Using a small throwing axe he kept in his belt, he began to hack away at it until he was able to pull it off completely. Then he stripped it with efficacy until it was smooth. "Here."

Maxwell took the switch, confused. "...Qunari mating ritual?"

"You're a funny son of a bitch. Er. No offense to your mother. Hit me with it."

Maxwell opened his mouth in confusion, licked his lips, and tried again. "Hit you?"

Bull clenched his fists, then smacked one against his chest. "Right here. Mind the face. Just hit me as hard as you can. Qunari training exercise to help you master your fear."

"Bull, I can't hit you." Maxwell looked appalled that Bull would even ask.

Bull growled, though he kept his anger in check. Of course someone like Maxwell didn't - _couldn't_ \- understand something like this. Someone who hated violence, even when it was necessary. Who thought the world could be fixed just by talking to it. "Look, you get scared or angry or hurt, you go and talk to the Maker. You pray, right?"

"Right…"

"This is like that. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

"There's really no other way?" Maxwell asked, looking down at the switch in his hand.

"I promise you it won't hurt me the way you think it will. I can take a lot. And you can tell me what happened to you while you beat the shit out of me."

"You don't have to phrase it like that."

"You gonna make me beg?"

Maxwell sighed. "No. Just… I'm sorry if it hurts."

Bull held back the _"That's the point,"_ he wanted to retort, and braced himself for the first hit. It was barely a tap. "Harder."

Maxwell winced, but did as he was told. "This helps?"

Bull grunted with the force. "Yep. So, about the spirit-thing?"

Another hit, another grunt. The sound of the wood smacking against Bull's chest echoed out over the lake with a steady _thwack!_

"I remembered what happened that day." Maxwell kept his eyes fixed on Bull's chest as he swung again. _thwack!_ "I was at the Conclave. I was looking for accommodations for a newly arrived group of templars. I heard a commotion, saw some weird lights. I thought maybe there was a fight, that the mages and templars had gotten out of hand. I wanted to step in. I saw…"

"Go on." Bull grunted again as Maxwell hit him particularly hard. _This is probably good for him, too,_ he thought suddenly.

"Corypheus. And the Grey Wardens. They had the Divine in some kind of spell." Maxwell glanced briefly at the ground, tightened his grip, then swung hard. The resounding _crack!_ startled a flock of birds from a nearby tree. "The orb, the one Solas said was elven, one of several magical foci, it got loose from Corypheus's grip. The Divine knocked it from his hand and I went for it. Instincts, I guess."

"You grabbed it?"

Maxwell swung again. "Yes," he said, starting to pant slightly with the effort, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. "It caused an explosion that leveled the Conclave. Those people, it was my-"

Bull grabbed the branch on the last swing, causing Maxwell to look up at him. "It wasn't your fault. You didn't cause it. Corypheus did."

But Maxwell's eyes were full of tears, and his hands shook with the effort of holding the branch. "All those people."

Bull pulled the branch from Maxwell's grasp and tossed it aside, hugging him tightly. He winced, his chest sore, but needing the pain to work through his fear. He was here, alive, and the demon was dead. It couldn't touch him and it couldn't touch Maxwell. "Corypheus would've killed them all anyway. And you too."

"The Divine," Maxwell muttered against his chest, forehead pressed to his skin. "We ended up in the Fade, and she… she saved my life, Bull. She told me to go, while the demons…" His chest hitched, and he took a breath to try to calm himself. "She died and I lived."

"She sounds like a pretty great person," Bull said. "Sacrificing herself and all. Selfless, yeah? What do you say… something about giving yourself in the service of the Maker?"

Maxwell laughed and pulled back, wiping his eyes. "'There is no greater devotion than to lay one's life at the Maker's feet. There is no better death than to take the blow for another.'"

"Yeah that. The way everyone talks about her, that's the way she would've wanted to die. That's how she _chose_ to die. You can't feel guilty for that."

The smile faded, and Maxwell shrugged. "You're right." His fingers ghosted the darkening bruises on Bull's chest. "I haven't had much time to think about this. I talked to that spirit, Faith-"

Bull growled unconsciously at the thought, the Fade making him rather uneasy.

"I thought maybe everything was just an accident, as Corypheus said. But why would everything have happened the way it did?"

_Coincidence,_ Bull wanted to say. Then again, there were an awful lot of coincidences surrounding Maxwell. Maybe he was touched by some human god. If that was the case though, Bull hoped He would leave Maxwell alone soon. After all, the guy was about to earn a long overdue break, as soon as Corypheus was dead.

"Even though it was the Divine that saved my life and not Andraste, I still think that I was in that room for a reason. That it was me and no one else. That this is my responsibility, and my burden to bear. A gift."

"Too bad it comes with a shitty return policy," Bull said, and kissed the top of Maxwell's head. Maxwell leaned up, and Bull obliged with a proper kiss, feeling two slim arms wrap around his neck. They stood there for who knew how long, a gentle breeze rolling off the lake, taking comfort and reassurance from one another. "C'mon," Bull said when they finally parted. "I want to get a couple of drinks before Blackwall cleans the tavern out."

"A bath and bed for me," Maxwell said. "But you enjoy your drinks. Tell Blackwall I want to talk to him soon."

"Sure thing."

Chest sore, but feeling infinitely better than he had, Bull walked with Maxwell back to town.


	20. Chapter 20

Servis looked at the report on his desk the way one would regard a poisonous snake. The papers, coupled with Silvius's message bode very ill. He had no real thoughts on Samson's mission, but held no hatred for the man. He looked at the annotation next to _Samson, Raleigh - General: Red Templar _. "Missing in Action." Which meant either there was no body to be found, or the pieces were too small to be identifiable. The scouts that returned from the Arbor Wilds talked of an old, abandoned temple, bodies of Grey Wardens and Red Templars scattered about, but nothing else. Whatever killed them was long gone with no trace. _Lucanus, Chiron - Senior Mage: Venatori_ was listed as killed in the line of duty. And Dorian? No mention of his name, and no word. The scouts did make a note that they saw Inquisition troops in the forest, likely checking on the area. But how did they know? Did Dorian return to them somehow? It was a safe bet, all things considered. Even though Dorian was an accomplished mage, Servis doubted very much that he was able to take on an entire company of Red Templars plus the others. Speculation, however, would get him nowhere.__

__As curious as what happened in the temple in the Wilds was, it wasn't nearly as upsetting as the report that now sat before him. The list of the dead was miles longer than that of the small excursion to the south. An untold number of chevaliers, Inquisition soldiers, and a good amount of the kings guard of Fereldan laid siege to Val Royeaux and ended up overwhelming it. He searched for Erimond's name, holding his breath as he scanned the alphabetized list, but there was no sign of it. He wondered if it was an oversight, or if the Inquisition took him hostage. Erimond, he knew, would have fought to the death rather than been taken in. Either that, or he fled. Not that he would shed any tears if Erimond turned up dead, however it would be much like losing a favorite piece of furniture or art. Replaceable, but how many years before you were fully comfortable with the change?_ _

__"These are, I assume, accurate," Servis said, and opened his top drawer. He removed a large, locked wooden chest which he opened with a pulse of magic._ _

__"Yes, Master," Silvius replied._ _

__Servis checked the contents of the box: traveling and identification papers, promissory notes, deeds, and several other documents of import. "I know you're not fond of your home country-"_ _

__Silvius raised a hand. "Under the circumstances," he said, "I think it is about time I see Antiva City again."_ _

__Giving a grateful nod, Servis said, "Pack lightly. Bring the traveling cloaks. I'll ready the carriage. We leave in half an hour. If you aren't downstairs, I'm going alone."_ _

__Silvius bowed and left at once. Servis knew he'd be ready in half the time, with bags for both of them. He crossed his office to the cupboard and pulled out an old leather satchel, packed away the box and his coin pouch. His other slaves he would order to the summer home in the south. Minrathous was simply too dangerous, and while they were replaceable, the less he needed to purchase once this was all over, the better. Picking up the folder containing the Venatori and Red Templar reports, he ignited them with a simple ball of flame, and tossed the ashes into the cold fireplace. If the Inquisition came looking for him, there would be no hard evidence of his involvement, unless Dorian was alive and working for them and gave his name. If that was the case… well, he could disappear for a very, very long time. After all, many people owed him favors._ _

__With one last look around his office, he stepped out, locking the door behind him, and hurried down to let the stable boy know he was needed._ _

__-_ _

__"Orlais isn't terrible," Maxwell decided, as he helped Blackwall shift some rubble._ _

__The cleanup effort was in full swing, and it was decided to fortify here and Ferelden, while Anders and his group returned to the Free Marches in case the Venatori tried to make a push there. They were no longer fighting a guerrilla war, and soldiers were needed to be seen in the cities. More than that, _he_ was needed to be seen. There was the matter of returning to Skyhold, but he couldn't be sure if it was still standing after the battle over a year ago. It would be in Corypheus's nature, he thought, to burn the whole thing to the ground. Leilana would need to send scouts, and while Maxwell knew he should be there to help clean up the castle, there was a small part of him that knew how very difficult it would be to return. So many memories were tied up in that place. It would take some time to reconcile._ _

__"You never lived here," Blackwall replied._ _

__Maxwell chuckled. "No, I suppose I haven't."_ _

__They were in their shirtsleeves, sweating with the effort of the cleanup. Thankfully, Gaspard's chevaliers managed several sweeps of the streets already, clearing away the deceased for proper funeral pyres._ _

__"I take it you have?" Maxwell asked, mopping the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief._ _

__"Aye."_ _

__Maxwell sighed. Ever since Sera's death, Blackwall had been extremely reserved. Well, he reasoned, Blackwall was always more reserved than most of their companions, largely preferring to stay by himself. But lately, something felt very, very off. He pulled himself up to sit on the high ledge of an ornate fountain, a statue of Andraste standing in the middle, the bowls of fire she normally held spouting streams of crystal clear, cold water. He leaned over, wet his handkerchief, and wiped off his face._ _

__"Let's take a short break," he said, his tone implying that he was doing more than just suggesting._ _

__Blackwall looked for a moment as if he was considering disobeying, but pulled off his fingerless leather gloves and approached the fountain. He scooped some of the clear water in his cupped hands and drank deeply before stretching. Maxwell noticed that when Blackwall glanced up at him he didn't quite meet his eyes. He stared out over the courtyard, one of many in Val Royeaux, each of them more ornate than the last. It seemed to Maxwell like each district was trying to outdo the others. Even the chantry – which was one of the first places he visited – was intimidating in its ostentatiousness. In comparison to Skyhold's little chapel and even Redcliffe's modest decorations, the chantry at Ostwick was disgustingly ornate. But even that one couldn't hold a candle to the elaborate intricacies of Val Royeaux's. He didn't stay long, offering a prayer of thanks to the Maker, and then leaving quickly get underway with the cleanup._ _

__"If you're going to ask me how I'm feeling," Blackwall preempted, "The answer is fine."_ _

__"While I am concerned," Maxwell said, "there's more to it than that, isn't there?"_ _

__"You're a man of strong faith. Tell me, if a person commits a crime, but he doesn't know he's committing one, does he still get a place at the Maker's side?"_ _

__Maxwell frowned, thinking about the question. "I suppose it depends on the situation, truly. Many would say that a man who steals bread to feed his starving family should be innocent of all crime. Some would see him in the stocks or worse. I believe the Maker loves all his children, and has the capacity for forgiveness, even if we don't necessarily forgive ourselves. If the crime was committed in ignorance – say, for example, a hungry man picks up a fallen branch with apples on it and eats those apples, but they belonged to someone else, then yes. It was an honest mistake and the Maker understands that. The hungry man had no cruel intentions toward the apple tree owner."_ _

__"What if he murders someone?"_ _

__The question took him aback. "Well that's… I would have to say that most murderers know they're committing a crime. Unless it was an accident or perhaps in self-defense or war." Not that Maxwell thought all acts of war should be excused. He thought suddenly of Dorian, who was transferred from Redcliffe Castle's dungeon to a more populated jail here in Val Royeaux. The burden of caring for the Inquisition's prisoners of war should fall to him, after all, and he had no desire to let Redcliffe shoulder that responsibility._ _

__"You're a soldier. Your commanding officer tells you to kill a man, says that it's important. That your country is depending on you. So you do it. You kill the man. His family gets caught in the crossfire. All of them, dead. You and your fellow soldiers then find out the order was treasonous. That the man who was killed faithfully served the empress. That your commanding officer set you up, all so that he could line his pockets with gold."_ _

__"No one would blame you for that," Maxwell said gently. "And if they do, the Inquisition will stand up for-"_ _

__"I wasn't a soldier. I was the officer who gave the order."_ _

__"Wait. What?" Maxwell wasn't sure he heard correctly. He couldn't imagine Blackwall – a good, righteous man determined to make the world a better place – doing what he described. "Is… is that why you became a Grey Warden? Did they conscript you from a dungeon or…?"_ _

__"I only wish that was the case," Blackwall said, his deep voice barely audible. "When everything came to light, the arrest for treason, for killing an ally of Empress Celene's, I ran. My men were arrested. Some were hanged. Others got off. I was never caught." He paused only briefly before pushing on. "A while after, I met a good man. A man who wouldn't have run. He was a Warden-Constable. The perfect picture of a Grey Warden, everything the tales make them out to be. We were going to Val Chevin so I could take part in the Joining. There was an ambush. Darkspawn. He took a blow meant for me. Would've killed me."_ _

__Maxwell couldn't help the sharp inhale of breath, and lifted a hand to cover his mouth, several emotions whirling inside him at once. He didn't speak though, letting Blackwall get his confession out. Likely he'd wanted to say this for a long time, and when a person reached that point, Maxwell knew it was best just to listen._ _

__"I assumed his name to keep the world from losing a good man," Blackwall said, resting his forearms on the stone ledge of the fountain. His hands were clasped, as if in prayer, head bowed. Everything in his stance shouted remorse, years of guilt piled upon his shoulders, weighing him down. "Then I traveled. Mostly Ferelden. Spoke about how noble it was to be a Grey Warden when I wasn't even one. Not truly. I never completed my Joining. My real name-"_ _

__"Is Blackwall," Maxwell interrupted, looking at him seriously when he glanced up. "I was always under the impression that what happened before the Grey Wardens no longer mattered. It's true in a lot of things, actually. For example, I was the third son of a nobleman, studying to be a Chantry Brother. I might have risen through the ranks to become a High Chancellor, but that's who I _was_. Who I am now is very different than who I might have become. Iron Bull was once Ben-Hassrath, and now his homeland calls him Tal-Vashoth. These things that happened in our past no longer matter. What matters is that you feel remorse for what you've done. You've sought to atone for your sins, and the Maker knows that. I know you, Blackwall. I've seen you fight. I've asked your advice. We shared a lot of stories. You never looked down on me because I'm half your age or inexperienced with a blade. You've been patient and understanding. You did the same for Sera."_ _

__Blackwall looked away again at the mention of her name._ _

__"The point is that in making the sure the world didn't lose a good man, you've succeeded." He reached out and laid a hand over Blackwall's tightly clenched fist. When Blackwall finally looked up at him once more, Maxwell nodded. "When this is all over, if you want help tracking down your men who might have survived, we'll see about getting them a full pardon. As far as the Inquisition's concerned, you've more than paid your debt. And… I assume you'll be staying with us through to the end?"_ _

__Blackwall nodded. "Aye, yes, I will."_ _

__Maxwell smiled. "Good. Are you all right? Do you want to pray?" He paused, laughing a bit. "Sorry, Iron Bull says that's my go-to when things are wrong."_ _

__Blackwall managed to return the smile, though it was small and hidden beneath his beard. He shook his head. "I think I need to be alone for a bit to think about things. But, if you would, maybe say one for me, if there's room?"_ _

__"Of course there is. And of course I will," Maxwell promised. He squeezed Blackwall's hand, then let go, sliding carefully off the ledge. "Thank you for telling me. Thank you for trusting me." He gestured over his shoulder in the vague direction of the inn in which most of the Inquisition officers were staying. "I'm going to get cleaned up and grab something to eat. I'll see you tomorrow for more of this?"_ _

__Blackwall nodded, and Maxwell gave him one last smile before retreating toward the inn._ _


	21. Chapter 21

The decision to return to Skyhold was not one they arrived upon lightly. Maxwell was reluctant to see it, even if he missed it. Over the time they'd spent there, it had become a second home. The war forced him to become nomadic, and while it was necessary, it wasn't for him. He wondered idly if Bull would remain there with him, or continue with his mercenary company once Corypheus was defeated. There were a lot of questions, and the anxiety he felt over the potential answers were best left until later. But as they crossed over the stone bridge, a familiar, almost nostalgic feeling washed over him, pushing all the niggling little doubts to the back of his mind.

"Looks like Red's scouts took care of the worst of it," Bull said in an undertone.

Maxwell surveyed the lower courtyard, frowning as he thought. The worst of the fighting took place above, but even the exceptional clean up job from Leliana's people couldn't erase the memories of what happened that day. "We'll regroup and then convene in the war room." His voice was terse, and he fought back the wave of emotion he felt. His knees buckled, and Bull grabbed him under the arm.

"Inquisitor?" Cullen asked, looking over in concern.

"He's just tired," Bull answered, a protective edge to his tone. "Gonna get him a bath and some food. Maybe some sleep. Leave the war room crap for tomorrow morning."

"Of course," Cullen agreed, though the worried expression did not leave his face as Bull pulled Maxwell away.

"We should have gone north," Maxwell said, as Bull guided him up the steps.

The noise of the army and the rest of the Inquisition's followers dulled as they passed into Skyhold's great throne room. Bull nudged the door nearly shut, not that it would deter anyone from following them. Maxwell swallowed roughly, looking up at the throne at the top of the hall. It never seemed so ominous before, slowly growing larger as they approached. He would need to sit there once it was all over. He would have to judge prisoners of war. He would have to judge Dorian. Would the people demand his head? Maxwell knew instantly that he couldn't condone that. But what if it caused enough strife within the ranks that the Inquisition splintered over it? Dorian had caused so much pain, and while Maxwell found it difficult to forgive him, he knew it would be impossible for others to do the same. Could he really ask that of them?

Bull palmed the large wooden door and continued to lead him upstairs, one powerful hand cupping his elbow, guiding him, keeping him upright. His thoughts moved from Dorian to Bull, and the questions he'd been pondering resurfaced with a vengeance. So many scenarios presented themselves, and Maxwell saw very few ending with himself and Bull both still alive and together. Even if everything went according to plan and they made it through this, would Bull want to stay? Maxwell didn't doubt Bull's feelings for him, but staying with the Inquisition was just another assignment to him. He hadn't meant to fall in love. The optimistic part of him – and it was an admittedly large part – believed he would stay, no questions asked. The other part, the one that doubted, thought that Bull would prefer to travel with his Chargers. But Maxwell was no mercenary. He would be a liability to them. And then, of course, there was the matter of his family.

The Trevelyans were fiercely traditional. He already knew what his brothers thought of men who deviated from the norm. His father might be able to overlook it, considering Maxwell's position in the Inquisition, the victories he earned, so long as it was a discreet affair. After all, the Chantry was likely no longer an option for him. He was the Inquisitor; he had obligations beyond seeing this to the end. And while Maxwell believed his father would have accepted a human lover, or perhaps even an elven one, announcing that he was involved with a Qunari would be more than he could bear. While he was no longer a child, he was still his father's son, and had no desire to hurt him.

"You going to let me in on what you're thinking?" Bull asked gently as they reached Maxwell's room.

Tired, feeling an ache in his bones so deep despite the high he should've been feeling from their victories, Maxwell trudged up the stairs. "The future."

"Heavy stuff."

"Quite," Maxwell agreed, and paused upon reaching the top of the steps.

Bull saw immediately what he was staring at. The bed. The linens hadn't even been changed. Everything was as it had been left. Corypheus and his army weren't interested in Skyhold after all. They just wanted to crush the opposition. When so many fled the castle, there was no reason to stay. It was cruel that this room was untouched, while so many others were likely left in ruins. Maxwell rubbed his forehead, feeling that odd nostalgic pull, the sadness and the anxiety at the memories of that bed where he and Dorian spent many nights together. He dropped his hand to the pendant of Andraste around his neck, thumb worrying over the figure. Bull's fingers brushed the palm of his free hand, and he stepped past him.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking care of this."

Maxwell watched Bull strip the bed and toss it all into the cold fireplace. Flint and tinder from his pouch took care of it quickly, the fire slow to build at first, then suddenly consuming the expensive silk bedding. But he didn't stop there. He lifted the heavy feather mattress, marched through the balcony doors, and heaved it over the edge. Maxwell couldn't help the nervous laughter that bubbled up and escaped his lips.

"Bull, what in the Maker's name-"

"Taking care of it," Bull repeated. He grabbed the bedframe, and with a horrible screeching sound, the wood dragged against the floor. It took quite a bit of effort, Maxwell watching in simultaneous amusement and scandal. "Good riddance," Bull said, and flipped it up and over the balcony edge.

Maxwell raced to watch it fall, clattering against the side of the castle, hitting the rocky mountainside below. It broke into several pieces and disappeared out of sight. "I… should be less surprised that you did that," he said, peering over the edge, hands gripping the cold stone of the railing.

"No use hanging on to bad memories. C'mon. Let's find some cushions or something."

They scoured the tower for the next quarter of an hour, gathering up blankets, pillows, and cushions. Bull pulled down drapes that were no longer in use, and the end result was a giant, misshapen pile on the rug in the middle of the room.

"Good enough," Bull said, taking him around the waist. "We'll get a new bed after we kick Corypheus's ass."

"We?" Maxwell looked up at him. He must've been obvious in his expression and tone, because Bull bent low to kiss him deeply; a reassuring kiss that Maxwell knew all too well. "Will you stay?"

"What? After? No, I was totally thinking about going sightseeing. Maybe that swamp in Ferelden we walked through a couple months ago. Had a certain je ne sais quoi."

Maxwell laughed at the heavy sarcasm, feeling foolish all at once. "Maybe you should go to Val Royeaux instead. Your Orlesian's pretty good."

"Nah. Accent's all wrong. They'd make fun of me."

Reaching up, Maxwell wrapped his arms around Bull's neck. "Really? I can't imagine anyone who would dare make fun of you."

"You just did," Bull pointed out, hands heavy and warm on his hips.

"That's different," Maxwell insisted. He smiled, then let it slowly fade as he thought more about what the future held. "So you'll really stay then? If we both survive this? What about the Chargers?"

Bull shrugged. "Some might go elsewhere. Most of 'em will probably stay. Krem will. He likes it here. Besides, Inquisition's found us the best fights. The best people to work with. I think you need us."

"I need you," Maxwell said, surprised at how easily the words came. He closed his eyes when Bull leaned down for another kiss, and then arched toward him, tightening his embrace.

Bull's hands slipped to his backside, squeezing affectionately. "I'm not going anywhere, kadan. I promise."

"I… want you to meet my father. Eventually."

"Well. Shit." Bull chuckled, nuzzling his cheek. "Never been introduced to anyone's father before. Been chased out of bed the morning after by some angry ones though."

Maxwell laughed, though he felt a little jealous at the thought of Bull's former lovers. He imagined gorgeous daughters of rough farmhands or middle class merchants, and entertained the idea of Bull running out of the house naked, angry father in pursuit. "My father's not like that. He would be polite."

"To my face, maybe."

"Let me handle the rest of that." Maxwell cupped his face, thumbs brushing along the prickly stubble on Bull's cheeks. "I want you in my life. He'll have to accept it. The Maker wouldn't have created me this way if He didn't have a plan. I'm pretty sure that plan wasn't to make my family hate me for my choice of lovers."

"Even if they do," Bull said, easing Maxwell to the cushions, "you got my word on this. I won't leave. I don't run when shit gets hard."

"I know," Maxwell breathed, relaxing in the haphazard pile. "Maybe… maybe we should have gone north instead, though."

"Cullen agreed the army needed to regroup and rest before that. Gaspard's men will hold the north, and King Alistair's people are watching their own borders. You got Anders and Hawke and their magey types all over the Free Marches." Bull straddled his hips, leaning over him carefully, hands splayed on either side of his head. "We're going to stop worrying for a few days, then we'll march. And you're going to relax."

"Or else?" Maxwell asked, arching an eyebrow.

He returned the kiss Bull gave him, finally surrendering to his care. Bull was careful not to crush him as he lowered himself.

"Or else," Bull agreed.

Maxwell closed his eyes, focusing on Bull's mouth and hands, pulling away his clothes, kissing him softly as each bit of fabric was removed. It was easy to get lost in the sensation. To be loved and cared for so thoroughly. A tiny bit of doubt in the back of his mind crept in, trying to tell him that he was being selfish. That he didn't deserve Bull's love. But it had grown smaller every day he was with Bull, with every day they pushed Corypheus's armies back toward Tevinter. Despite his title, his responsibilities, he was still human. He still deserved love and respect, and someone who would take care of him. And Bull felt that way toward him. He wasn't pretending. He wasn't going to leave him.

"Oh!" he gasped, arching into Bull's touch as his lover slid his smallclothes down his legs, mouth warm and wet at the tip of his cock.

Thoughts of his responsibilities fled quickly, and there was only Bull, massaging away his aches, giving him everything he ever needed, everything he ever wanted. If Maxwell's faith had ever wavered in the last year, it returned now full force. He was convinced more than before that the Maker put him through these trials, and he'd succeeded. But he was also convinced that the Maker led him to Bull, who stood by him through it all, without whom he never would have made it. He cried out Bull's name as he came the first time, collapsing bonelessly against the pillows and blankets.

"Still loud as anything," Bull laughed, and rummaged through their things for a small pot of scented oil.

"I don't think I can help that," Maxwell breathed, smiling up at him.

"Thought about gagging you," Bull mused, sitting back so he could undress. "Decided I'd rather hear it though. It's fucking hot."

It was amazing that, even after all this time, Bull could still make him blush. "I like when you say things like that."

"Oh, I know. All Chantry up front, but in the bedroom you're dirtier than an Antivan whore."

"Bull! Maker's sake."

Bull grinned. "You ready tonight?"

Maxwell took a breath, then nodded. "Think so."

"If it hurts, I'll stop. Just relax for me. Trust me."

And, as Maxwell pulled his knees up, returning the smile that Bull gave, he whispered, "I do."


	22. Chapter 22

Cocooned in blankets, warm in Bull's embrace, Maxwell had his head buried under the covers and didn't realize they weren't alone until he felt, rather than heard, Bull speaking to someone. Legs and back aching from the previous night, he blearily lifted his head. Bull pulled the blanket down, and Maxwell covered a yawn.

"What time… Cullen? What's wrong?" He sat up at once, the covers falling to his waist.

"Nothing," Cullen said, averting his eyes quickly from their state of undress. "We're fortifying our defenses and pooling our resources at the moment. I simply came to give a status update."

"Didn't mean to wake you," Bull said, reaching up to brush Maxwell's hair from his forehead. "Sleep all right?"

"Like a rock," Maxwell assured him. He yawned again and swiped at his eyes before looking at Cullen. "…I can meet you downstairs if it's more comfortable for you to speak when we're not… ah…"

Bull snorted. "Human modesty." He shifted the covers, and Cullen turned around fully as he extricated himself from the pile of blankets and pillows.

"Give us…" Maxwell looked at Bull, who bent over to pick up his discarded pants, watching the muscles in his legs and backside. "An hour," he finished, in a slightly heady tone.

"As you say, Inquisitor," Cullen said, and left quickly.

"Going to break something in his brain one of these days," Bull mused. He glanced over his shoulder, and smirked, seeing Maxwell's expression. "So, I take it I shouldn't get dressed yet?"

Maxwell shook his head and held out his hand. Bull, chuckling, joined him once again.

-

When finally they gathered in the war room, Maxwell greeted Josephine – whom he'd not seen in some time – with a polite hug. It was all business after that, Cullen detailing the map, moving troops around their borders, explaining the next steps in the plan.

"Magister Tilani will give us our in," Cullen explained. "Through the southern Nevarran borders."

"I have secured our alliance with the trade princes in Antiva," Josephine said. "The war hasn't been particularly profitable for them, and the city is suffering for the embargos. No one wants to move their goods through Tevinter, for fear of Venatori raids."

"And the Chantry?" Maxwell said, tapping the map near Minrathous.

"They don't have the military might we need for them to join us in battle," Cullen replied. "However, we've received promises of solidarity from the Chantry after the war is over."

Maxwell frowned. "I doubt that extends to recognizing whoever will be chosen as Divine."

"The best we can hope for is a promise of peace," Cullen agreed. "Instead of the ongoing cold war."

Bull snorted disbelievingly, but Maxwell was hopeful. With the Inquisition in the middle of it all, they had a real chance for change. A chance for peace throughout Thedas. No idle threats of Exalted Marches or treating mages as second class citizens. He would make sure there was equality, at least in the south. After all, not only would Tevinter be in the Inquisition's debt, but King Alistair and Emperor Gaspard owed them quite a bit as well. It was just a matter of holding them to it.

Future plans set in place, Maxwell decided to head into the valley below Skyhold. Despite the very good night he had, he was still apprehensive to be back, and it was likely that their soldiers were as well. He knew how important it was to keep morale up. They'd be marching in a few days' time and he wanted to do all that he could for them.

"Could just send them a couple dozen barrels of beer," Bull suggested, as they started on the winding road down the mountainside.

Maxwell shivered, the wind playing through his hair. It was getting long again, though Bull seemed to like it, and he thought about growing it out. Perhaps he'd look a bit older then, a bit more regal as befitting his position. He spared a thought for what his father would think, and laughed quietly to himself.

"What is it?"

"Just thinking about what's to come."

"Oh yeah. I laugh all the time thinking about crazy Vint armies headed by some demented wannabe god."

"No," Maxwell hastened to add. "The future. What comes after. Thinking about what my father's going to say."

"Y'know, I realize family's important and all, but it's not as if you're going to be living under his roof anymore. I mean, you're the damn Inquisitor. You lead this," Bull said, nodding out over the valley.

"I know." But he doubted he would ever stop seeking his father's approval. He was about to try to explain when a screech like nails on slate made him wince. The sound echoed out over the valley, and a huge shadow fell over the snow covered hills.

"So much for bringing the fight to Corypheus," Bull said, as the alarm bell rang out from Skyhold.

"He's not stopping," Maxwell noted, as the dragon flew further south. Then he realized. "The Temple of Sacred Ashes." Bright green light erupted from his palm, a shock of unexpected pain accompanying it. "AH!" He shook it vigorously, wincing. "No, I'm fine," he said as Bull looked at him in concern. "Fine. We need to get to Cullen. Get the horses ready. Come on. We need to stop Corypheus before he opens another hole in the sky!"

Heart beating wildly, nerves alight with adrenaline, Maxwell raced back up the path toward Skyhold. He hoped they could get to the ruins of the temple in time.

-

Hooves thundered on the snowy road, a dozen horses galloping toward the old ruins. Maxwell gripped the reins, sword clanking at his side. He didn't feel ready for this. Not even the daily training he did with Bull and Cullen and Hawke could prepare him for it. They picked up the pace, Bull next to him while Cullen led the charge. A vanguard of their forces, who were – thank the Maker – fed and rested. Maxwell regretted that he couldn't give them their promised days of leave, but swore he'd make it up to each and every one of them once this was over.

They gained the valley quickly, the late afternoon sun preparing to set behind the Frostbacks. Maxwell's hand ached, the greenish glow not abating. It surged, and he realized a second before what was about to happen.

"Look out!"

Cullen and three others pulled up short, their horses rearing back as a rift opened wide. Maxwell yanked hard on the reins and leapt off, landing easily in a crouch. Two despair demons, screeching their high-pitched wails of sadness, flew from the rift, arms akimbo. Cullen turned his horse with ease, drawing his sword, and caught one in the middle. Maxwell thrust his hand forward as several lesser wisps floated out, pulled there by the power and their own curiosity. With a loud, _BANG_ the rift sealed, Maxwell shaking out his palm.

"Go on!" Cullen called after them. "We'll handle this here!" He snapped the reins and with a sharp, "Hyah!" raced off toward the despair demons, taking a handful of his men with him.

Maxwell climbed atop his horse and looked back to make sure Bull and Blackwall were still with him. Bull give him a quick, reassuring nod which he returned, and they galloped onward toward the ruins. The sky above them started to darken, whirling grey clouds like the beginning of a tornado appeared just ahead, kicking up a strong wind.

"Not good!" Blackwall called out. "Inquisitor!"

"Push on!" Maxwell ordered, raising an arm against the wind. Underneath him, his horse whinnied and shook its head, then turned around altogether. "Without them!" He hopped off, not willing to let a bit of weather – unnatural or not – stop him from what he needed to do. He drew his sword and smacked the horse on its hindquarters with the flat of his blade. It ran off, likely grateful to be out of the path of destruction.

Bull jogged up, moving in front of Maxwell, blocking the debris which started to fly toward them. "Just a few hundred more feet!"

"We just need to get to the temple!" Maxwell called back over the gale. "I can stop him with the mark!"

Through the whirling tempest, they heard the cry of Corypheus's dragon, high-pitched and ear-splitting. It barreled out of the clouds and landed hard before them, glaring down, bearing its razor-like teeth. Maxwell only had a second to acknowledge it before Bull tackled him to the ground, out of the path of the red, crackling lightning it spewed forth.

"You ready to fight a dragon?" Maxwell yelled.

Bull smirked as he stood, pulling Maxwell to his feet. He yanked his great warhammer off his back and turned to face it. "You're god damned right I am."

Before they could strike, another shadow fell over them, a large black and violet dragon swooping down from high above. A lone figure dropped from its back and the new dragon barreled headlong into the first. Bull watched with great enthusiasm, but Maxwell kept his eye on the approaching, familiar form. He called out in realization when he recognized who it was.

"Solas!"

"My apologies for arriving at the zero hour, Inquisitor!" Solas called out, with a slight bow. His long tunic whipped in the wind of the dragons' wings. "I was calling up some help from an old friend." He gestured toward the fight, a fond smirk tugging at his lips.

"No apologies necessary," Maxwell said, shaking his hand. "But Bull might be disappointed."

"Nah," Bull assured them as the dragons grappled, Solas's "friend" pulling the other further and further away. "Still have to take out Corypheus. If there's anything worth fighting, it's that guy."

"Indeed," Solas agreed. "Shall we?"

Maxwell gripped his sword, nodded, and led the way toward the ruined temple.


	23. Chapter 23

Out of all the things in life Bull ever experienced, the death of friends, of people he loved, was something he would never get used to. When he first met Maxwell, he was a somewhat scared kid. Hiding a lot of anxiety behind a wall of bravado, and managing only not to get trodden on by others because of his quick wit and sharp tongue. He made you feel like you mattered, and that brought a lot of people close to him. People who would follow him gladly into the fire. And that was another thing about Maxwell: he always led, never followed. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do for the Inquisition, and in return, they followed him with all their heart and soul. Time, Bull knew, didn't always change a person. But experience did. Maxwell changed, but his faith never wavered. He faced demons and humans alike, monstrous things no sane person should be forced to live through and survive intact. And there was a part of him that, when Maxwell fell, realized that he wouldn't be in pain anymore.

But that was a load of nugshit. Life was pain, and always worth living.

So he fought harder, tapping into untold reserves of strength and energy. Solas's barrier kept him safe, his own rage fueling his power. Blackwall flanked the creature known as Corypheus, tall and monstrous, twisted like an abomination but worse. A man who thought he could be a god and ended up falling harder than anyone had ever fallen. And at his feet lay the one person who Bull truly believed should survive this more than any of them. Maxwell was simply _good_. He believed in people. He believed the world wasn't the shithole that it was. And that he could make the crappy parts better through his actions and the power of positivity and goodwill and all that other shit. Bull needed him to live, because he needed someone to believe the things he no longer could.

Maxwell stirred, a bright white energy flowing over his body. The light was warm and inviting, and heads turned to look. Waking slowly, he sat up and leaned heavily on one arm. The other reached out toward Corypheus, a brilliant glowing green light pulsating from his palm. "One… last chance," he breathed, sounding pained. "The Maker will absolve you from sin."

Corypheus sneered, leaping back from Bull and Blackwall and their twin attacks. The orb floated a foot above his head, and he reached up for it. "Dumat!" he called to the heavens. "Dumat, I beseech you!"

"Turn from this evil!" Maxwell cried out, almost begging him. "There's still a chance!"

"Inquisitor." Solas stood just behind Maxwell, eyes fixed on the orb. "It is time."

Bull stepped aside quickly, Blackwall doing the same as a crackle of light flew from Maxwell's palm, linking with the orb. The red lightning surrounding it fizzled and was swallowed up by the brilliant verdant energy. Far, far above them, the sky continued to darken, the wind kicking up more violently now than before. Bull turned away from it, eyes fixed on Maxwell, who got to his feet on shaking legs. A gash on his forehead bled freely, blood trickling down the side of his face. His eyes, bright blue, were filled with tears, and he grimaced in pain. The loud _BANG_ of a rift closing echoed across the valley, and the wind suddenly died. Rocks settled. The energy dissipated all at once, everything oddly silent. Maxwell, exhausted, dropped to a knee, and Bull rushed to his side before he could collapse.

His sword was lost in the fray, his light leather armor torn, and he was covered in blood, sweat, and dirt. He closed his eyes, tears falling down his cheeks as he slumped against Bull, exhausted, and completely spent. Bull quickly looked him over, making sure nothing was irreparably damaged.

"Kadan?" he whispered. "Maxwell."

"M'here," Maxwell managed. "S'over. Saw her."

"Her? Who?" He wondered if Maxwell was delirious from the blood loss, and tugged at the armor, pulling it free so he could get a better look at his injuries. Some were bad, but not life-threatening, thankfully.

"Andraste." And Maxwell smiled tiredly, head against Bull's shoulder. "Said I was doing… Maker's work."

_Definitely delusional,_ Bull thought. "Right. Well, even heralds need healers. Come on. I've got you." He lifted Maxwell easily in his arms, lamenting how light he was, how fragile he seemed now, though Bull knew he was anything but. "You guys coming?" he asked, glancing back. But only Blackwall was there. "Where'd Solas go?"

Blackwall, who'd been looking up at the sky where Corypheus disappeared, quickly looked around. "He was just here."

Bull frowned. If Solas wanted to pull a disappearing act, he wasn't going to wait around to see why. Certain he'd turn up again sooner or later, he gestured with his head toward the valley. "Time to go."

"I think so."

They retraced their step back toward the mouth of the valley, Bull relieved to see Cullen and several others there.

"Maker's breath," Cullen gasped, looking at Maxwell's unconscious form. "The Inquisitor, is he-?"

"He'll be fine," Bull said. "Needs a healer. Nothing too bad. Saving the world's exhausting work."

"Indeed it is. What happened? We saw the sky open and-"

"Don't understand it all myself," Bull admitted. "Think he opened a rift to pull Corypheus inside. The other dragon took care of his and then flew off."

"So then it's over," Cullen breathed, relief etched into every tired line of his face. Bull saw him offer a silent prayer to the Maker, then smile tightly. "There's still a lot to do. But for now I think we should return to Skyhold. We'll get you a horse for the Inquisitor. The rest of our men are handling demons further down the valley but their strength broke when the rift in the sky closed again. There will be others to close eventually."

"Cullen," Bull said, stopping him before he could take another breath to start again. "Just… let us have this one for now, all right?"

Cullen frowned, but pursed his lips, and nodded silently. He turned to fetch a horse for them and held it steady for Bull to carefully step on with Maxwell cradled in his arms. Bull glanced back to the temple, the sky above clear blue and nearly cloudless, as if the morning never happened. As if none of it ever happened, like a bad dream. He looked down at Maxwell, who remained unconscious, sleeping peacefully.

Bull smiled. "Enjoy it while it lasts. Got a feeling it won't be this way for long." Clicking his tongue, he guided the horse up and out of the valley toward Skyhold.


	24. Chapter 24

The month after Corypheus's demise was a busy one. Soldiers were dispatched to Tevinter to help rein in the remaining Venatori. Several were still at large, though likely dead. Leliana assured him that their spies would continue to search. A week long party was held in the castle, and while they had many reasons to celebrate, Maxwell found it difficult to put on a face for the people who called him their savior. He recalled again and again what happened that day. Knocked unconscious, it was a vision of Andraste talking to him, telling him he couldn't give up, that he had to continue. But was it her? He'd been wrong before.

Bull told him he'd seen a white light surrounding him, but that could have just as easily been residual energy from the mark or any number of things. The one person who might have been able to shed some light on the subject – Solas – was gone. Another thing Leliana's agents were looking into. It was frustrating and he was worried that he might never fully understand what happened that day. Sitting in the small chapel in Skyhold's courtyard garden was a relief, but he couldn't spend all his days there. There was simply too much to do.

Unfortunately on his long list of things to do, that also included sentencing Dorian. The surge of guilt he felt at ignoring him for the last few weeks returned daily, until he realized he couldn't put it off any longer. Leaving Dorian in a cell beneath Skyhold with only Cole and the guards for company, it wasn't something a compassionate person should have done. He was tempted to have Dorian transferred again, this time to a prison in Ostwick, where he would remain indefinitely. But it wasn't fair to anyone, and he knew he was simply looking for the easiest way out.

He brought his concerns to Bull, and the conversation to follow eased his doubts.

_"No one's going to second guess you. Just say what you believe."_

_"And you?"_

_"I'll stand behind you, no matter what."_

_"Even if I let him go?" Maxwell asked, concerned._

_Bull took his chin gently in one large hand. "No matter what," he repeated._

Maxwell took a deep breath, smoothing his silken clothing before stepping into Skyhold's throne room. The crowd gathered was a fair sight larger than normal, the members of the Inquisition eager to see what his judgment would be for Dorian, whose actions hurt so many of them. Maxwell kept his head up and seated himself on the edge of the throne, hands on the armrests, gripping tightly. He hoped he could keep his expression neutral, not wanting to wear his heart on his sleeve as he sometimes did. Josephine nodded to one of the soldiers, who waved to another. The crowd parted and the whispers grew louder as Dorian was brought through the hall, as was traditional for all Inquisition prisoners. His wrists were bound, eyes on Maxwell, ignoring the dissenters around him. Something flew from the crowd, hitting Dorian in the head, causing him to stumble.

Maxwell stood at once. "Enough!" He descended the steps, eyes falling on what had hit Dorian; a rotten tomato. "This is beneath the dignity of the inhabitants of Skyhold," he said, withdrawing a handkerchief. He handed it to Dorian, who took it, and looked away with a whisper of thanks. Maxwell surveyed the crowd again. "That's quite enough of that."

He returned to the throne to resume his seat, angry now, though he held himself in check. _They're hurting. They want justice._ He took a deep breath. Though Bull tried to reassure him, he was positive there would be many, many people who would be upset with him after this. But he couldn't condone any kind of death penalty. The Maker would judge every soul that came to him, and killing in the heat of battle was most definitely different than judging a death sentence upon someone. Maybe other leaders could do it and live with themselves, but Maxwell certainly could not.

Josephine cleared her throat, looking down at her notes, scratching with her quill. "Before you stands Lord Dorian Pavus of Tevinter. His crimes…" She hesitated, brow furrowed. "Apologies, Inquisitor," she said quickly. "His crimes are numerous, his actions causing the deaths of many Inquisition soldiers. He is charged with treason and murder by proxy."

A slight movement in the crowd caught Maxwell's eye and he saw Cole standing at the back of the room, balancing on the balls of his feet, the brim of his hat pulled low. He took another deep breath and focused on Dorian. "What do you have to say in your defense?"

"Nothing that hasn't already been discussed prior to this," Dorian said. His voice, while calm and clear, was subdued. Perhaps he thought Maxwell had already made the decision to take his head.

Maxwell glanced to Bull, who stood against the wall, behind the crowd, arms crossed. He was looking at Maxwell stoically. Though he knew Bull would keep his promise and support him, he also knew that Bull likely wanted to hear a death sentence as well. Maxwell fought the urge to rub his face or to touch his pendant. Further, he fought against the urge to run from the hall, away from all this, back to Ostwick where his life was simple. _And boring. And lacking the ability to make real changes like you can here. And without Bull._

He stood from the throne and looked over the crowd. "Dorian's actions are inexcusable. Because of him, many of our friends and loved ones are dead. He acknowledges this, and makes no excuses for his actions. Despite the extenuating circumstances under which he performed these treasonous acts, he deserves to be punished. Many of you would like me to give the order to take his head. And many of you might do that were you in my position. I want you to know this: I hear your pain. I feel it as my own, as I've felt those losses."

His heart ached, remembering that day, Cassandra's pained cry as Corypheus murdered her, Varric's lifeless body lying in the courtyard. And not just those that died on that day, but the ones that followed. Sera, falling in the heat of a battle that was the turning point for this war. They lost so many good people, deaths that could have been avoided. But he knew that the Maker would judge Dorian's soul, and he needed to give him the chance to make peace with what he'd done. A year in Tevinter, among those that tortured him, then weeks locked up as a prisoner were punishments for his deeds, but he needed to learn how to forgive himself.

"I am a man of the Maker. I truly believe that we should not live with anger in our hearts. That we should not seek vengeance, no matter the cause. That all men are capable of changing."

A disruptive sort of murmur rippled through the crowd. Several people left the hall, and Maxwell was almost positive they would leave the Inquisition. Many more would follow. But most, he hoped, would stay.

"I cannot pass a judgement of death on my fellow man, no matter his crimes. Dorian, I believe, is deeply regretful-"

"Fat lot of good that is!" someone shouted.

One of the soldiers turned to the crowd as the mutterings grew louder.

"No man-" Maxwell paused, then raised his voice over them. "No man," he continued, louder than before, "deserves to be put to death for his crimes. The Maker is the only one fit to judge us-"

"Sod your Maker!"

The following shouts of agreement hurt, but Maxwell didn't rise to it. For all the dissenters in the crowd, there were at least an equal amount of those calling out in support of what seemed to be the impending judgment.

"After a year of imprisonment, both a captive of the Ventatori and then a prisoner of war with us, I judge you, Dorian Pavus."

Dorian drew himself up, eyes fixed on Maxwell.

"Exile. From here, and from your homeland."

The mutterings exploded into shouts, the arguments drowned out as the crowd started to become volatile. The soldiers, however, were quick to separate them, sending people out of the throne room, ordering them to stand down. Maxwell felt Bull's heavy gaze on him and looked over, expecting the worst. Bull, however, nodded firmly, a look on his face that Maxwell thought was pride. 

He looked at Dorian. "I… will see you before you leave." He looked then to Josephine. "Bring him back to his cell for now. Provisions for the journey tomorrow morning."

"Yes, Inquisitor," she said, with a half-curtsy, notating the order before waving to the guards.

Feeling dizzy, Maxwell departed the throne room quickly, exiting through the door that led up to his quarters in the tower. He didn't get very far, Bull catching up quickly. He wrapped his arms around him, and Maxwell turned in his embrace, soaking up the comfort.

"Did I do the right thing?"

Bull kissed the top of his head. "What do you think?"

Maxwell looked up. "Yes. I don't… I don't know if I can keep this up, Bull. I…"

Bull kissed him quiet, the doubt ebbing slowly away. "You're stronger than you think you are. Time after fucking time, you come through it. A few scars, sure, but that's life. People are angry. They'll get over it or they'll leave. It's a decision you made, you live with the consequences. But if anyone tries to hurt you, I'll fucking kill them."

Maxwell's surprised laugh was shaky and nervous. "Bull. Please don't."

"I would."

"I know, just… I don't want to talk about death anymore today."

"All right. Fair enough. Come on. You can sing me a song and we'll take dinner upstairs." He took Maxwell by the hand and pulled him further up the tower.

"Yes," Maxwell agreed. "I'd like that."

-

It was an island far to the west and some odd thousand or so miles to the north. Three villages comprised the entirety of the population, mostly fish and fruit in their exports and consumables. Dorian visited once a month to restock supplies and gather any correspondence, of which there wasn't much. He'd written to his father before leaving Skyhold, promising to write when he reached his destination, which was chosen by Leliana, who knew more about Thedas and its little nooks and crannies than anyone. Since his exile, he'd received a few letters from his father, all hesitant, none signed with love. Dorian wondered if they ever would be, but knew there would be a day in which he stopped hoping. He received books as well, but nothing from the Inquisitor, though he wasn't truly expecting anything at all. Their last conversation was brief and guarded.

_"It's more than I deserve," Dorian said, as way of saying thank you._

_"Yes," Maxwell acknowledged. "But you didn't deserve what happened to you either. I hope you can learn to forgive yourself, and be at peace with it."_

_"I… perhaps. One day."_

_"Here." Maxwell handed him a wrapped package. "For the journey and what comes after. Open it on the road."_

_"…Thank you."_

_"Take care of yourself, Dorian."_

_"And you, Inquisitor."_

He opened the package during the journey. A leather-bound book, the Chant of Light with pages marked, notes made in the margins, underlined passages. Inscribed on the inside front cover in ink fresher than the rest, was a note.

_"This helped me through a lot of hard times in my life. I would see it put to use once more. –Maxwell"_

Dorian, who considered himself Andrastian, but never really put much to practice, read from it dutifully, though he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for, or what Maxwell thought he could get from it. But he would continue to read it, almost as a penance or perhaps as gratitude toward Maxwell for giving him his life. But what a life.

"Some days are better than others," Cole remarked, as Dorian returned to the little cabin in the middle of the jungle.

"At least I have your eternal optimism," Dorian sighed, tossing down the burlap sack full of fruit. He set the crate of fish in the icebox, checking the ice and reapplying the spell to keep the meat fresh. Nearly a year alone – or at least, with Cole – and he'd learned a lot of things in his spare time. Cooking for one, building and repairs, and even how to hunt, though he wasn't sure that counted since Cole would herd the animal toward him, and he would roast it with a fireball.

"Some days you want me to go. Those are the days I think I should stay."

"I am glad to have you here, my friend," Dorian hastened to add. Cole was good company and could bring him news of the outside world that he couldn't access. Though, he supposed in time, he would likely lose interest in the politics of a place he would never return to. He settled down in the wicker chair by the window, the sounds of the birds singing in the jungle putting him at ease. It took several nights to get used to the noises of nature, instead of the noises of the city, and now he found it comforted him. "I think I'll read a bit before supper. Then perhaps I'll teach you another card game."

"I'd like that," Cole said, genuinely enthused. He was about to speak again, then stopped, frowning. He tilted his head.

"What is it?" Dorian asked, concerned.

"…Someone's at the door." And then Cole disappeared.

A second later, a firm, heavy knock came and Dorian set aside his book, wary. He crossed the small room, braced himself, and opened the door to see who it was. A tall figure, hooded and cloaked, even in the heat of the jungle.

"Thought I'd never find you." 

The figure lowered his hood, and Dorian recognized Anders, an old ally of the Inquisition. He couldn't contain his surprise. "What are you doing here?"

Anders leaned on his staff, expression stoic as he glanced around the hut, eyes falling on Dorian. "I've come to offer you a deal."

"Did the Inquisitor send you?"

"No." Anders straightened. "Come with me."

"…Why? You know what I've done. You were there."

A sad smile crossed Anders' lips. "I'm offering you a choice. Join me and my men."

"But why?" Dorian asked, gripping the handle of the door.

"Because," Anders said, "you've paid your debt. And no mage deserves this fate. I'll be waiting in the village on the north coast for the next week, then I'm leaving." He pulled his hood back up.

Dorian nodded. "All right."

He watched Anders trek away, back through the trees, and sighed, leaning against the doorway. Cole reappeared behind him, and tentatively touched his shoulder.

"Will go with him?"

Dorian frowned slightly, before slipping back inside and shutting the door. "Perhaps." He would think about it. At least, he thought, whatever he did, it would be his decision, and his alone.


End file.
